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COPVRIGHT DEPOSm 



ON THE 

Sunset Shore 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Across the Lake 113 

Alaska 164 

Autumn 153 

Book 45 

Boys and Girls 18 

Changes of Weather Ill 

Content 27 

Content 154 

Cross in the Street 33 

Deserted Homestead 41 

Dollar Bug 22 

Don't Whine 54 

Down the Hill 94 

Eagle's Lament 192 

Evergreen Shore 130 

Eloise of Snohomish 197 

Faith 175 

Faithful Watcher 86 

Feeding Pigs 122 

Forgotten Paradise 5 

For Mercy's Sake 87 

Funny Little Chamber Man 95 

Gentle Reminder 171 

Give Alms 85 

Glad 60 

Golden Gate 146 

Good Enough 1 89 

Greatest City 109 

Harp of the Sands 114 

Hawthorn Spring 1 73 



II. 

Page. 

Her Soul 84 

Homesick 1 66 

Homesick Prospector 143 

Human Character 69 

If a Fellow Don't Get Sour 75 

Impossible Woman 39 

Inconsistency 66 

Inspiration 47 

It 53 

Immanuel's Lamp 199 

Just on Before 127 

Laughter 157 

Love 72 

Mantle 37 

Michal 58 

Mt. Rainier 124 

Mt. St. Elias 134 

Mr. Lazy and 1 156 

My Very Own 161 

Nature's Adornm.ents 49 

New House 117 

New Year's 170 

No Time 154 

Not Proud 101 

Ocean Maid 90 

Oregon Trail 176 

Our Steps 31 

Paper Dollie 81 

Paradise 68 

Paradise Forgot 5 

Peace Convention 28 

Picture 107 



III. 

Page. 

Polly Sunbeam 52 

Price of Love 21 

Professor of Labor 61 

Rescued 74 

Scandal 65 

Second Childhood 35 

Sentiment 193 

Six Years Old 89 

Shortest Hour 23 

She 44 

Smiler 140 

Snoqualmie 141 

Somewhere Else 25 

Spring 96 

Story of Love 168 

Stream of Oregon 135 

Success 17 

Summer 152 

Sweet Sadness 104 

Tip 163 

Tootles 78 

The Mill Starts Up 32 

The River Runs 70 

The Voice. 158 

The New Nation 195 

The Way Up 106 

Trillium 126 

Trying to Forget 1 49 

Victoria Arm 138 

Waiting 77 

Water 63 



IV. 

Page. 

Weather Grumblers 169 

Whatsoever 57 

Wheat Fields 55 

When Baby Runned Away 98 

When I Get Big 159 

Where's My Nannie 93 

Where Is the West 102 

Winter 129 

Worst Troubles 50 

World, The 108 



INDEX OF PORTRAITS. 

A Daughter of Washington State 8 " 

An Orange Blossom 14 -- 

Tootles 78 ^ 

Good Morning, Oregon 135 

Little Miss British Columbia 138 

Sweet Memory, Snoqualmie 141 

Tip 163- 

Obleka 165 . 



GROUPS OF VIEWS. 

California 36 

Oregon 68 

Washington, 1 100 

Washington, 2 148 

British Columbia 175 

Alaska 192 



"ALL THINGS TO ALL MEN" 







C7^ ' 



ON THE 

SUNSET SHORE 



A BOOK OF 
POEMS AND RHYMES 

BY 

JOSEPH W. DORR 



Published by the 

SOUVENIR PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

P. O. Box 295, Seattle, Washington. 

1908. 






5" 



1.SSRARY of CONGRESS! 
Two Copies Heceived 

DEC 16 1908 

k- --xCopyrifctnt Entry 

COPY ts. 



Copyrighted by 
JOSEPH W. DORR, 

1908. 



METROPOLITAN PRESS PRINTING CO., 

BOOK MANUFACTURERS 

Seattle, U. S. A. 

1908 



PREFACE. 

This book will not have fulfilled the mission designed 
for it by its author unless its influence upon its readers 
shall have been to increase, to a degree at least, their rev- 
erence for the Giver of all good and the Creator of every- 
thing beautiful in mind and matter, 

J. W. D. 



THE SUNSET SHORE 



PARADISE FORGOT. 

The little stream laughed and leaped down the rocky 
steep>s into the green canyon and ran away among the 
peach orchards and meadows to hide itself in the bosom 
of the big stream down by the almond trees and grape 
vines, and I stood there, among the orchards, and looked 
at the silver river which wandered out from among the 
hills of green and gray, and forgot the rest of the universe 
while I gazed on the beauties of Peach. 

The bees sung in the alfalfa, the white houses nestled 
among the apple trees and the pine-clad hills around smiled 
down on this, one of the earth's most beautiful spots, where 
the fierce cold of winter never comes and where the winds 
and dusts of the highland fields above never penetrate. 
Like a jewelled crescent in the ear of some ravishing 
beauty hangs this peaceful emerald nook close to the silvery 
face of the Columbia. 

The grapes drank purple blood from the teeming soil 
of the verdant slope, while the sunbeams painted blushes 
on the cheeks of the downy peaches and shining apples, 
and the almond smiled through its soft gray mask, while 
the pear and prune grew luscious in the autumn air, and 
I forgot my dream of Paradise when I looked upon this 



6 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

most beautiful scene I ever beheld in earth, and I thought 
I could stay there content a thousand years if a bit of this 
bewitching landscape were my very own. 

The view is mine, I hold it yet, though the land belongs 
to others. I can close my eyes and see a vision of the 
silver river sweeping around the inner bow of that ex- 
quisite emerald crescent, studded here and there with a 
painted cottage nestling among the orchards and vineyards, 
where the pine-clad hills which wall it in mellow the win- 
ter's cold, and where the river with its mountain current 
cools the summer heat. I think Content must dwell very 
close to Peach. 

* * * 

Away off there to the west like a centipede the long pas- 
senger train is crawling, crawling around the shoulders 
and across the gulches of the mountain sides, leaving green 
fields of the wide valley to explore the gray of the lava- 
streaked sage-brush fringed hills. It is just as well, for 
I am content to stay. 

Yonder among the blue green hills nestles the Cove, 
above it gleam in the sunlight the snowy peaks of the 
Powder River mountains. Away to the left the chimneys 
of La Grande send up a veil of blue among the nooks 
between the toes of the Blue mountains, while Hot Lake 
steams before it and Island City and Alicel support its 
right, and far to the north, where the haze rests on the 
ridges, nestles Elgin, where the river plunges down into the 
depths of the yawning earth beyond. At our feet Union 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 7 

City smiles up at us, while yonder at the right and left 
stand Mts. Frances and Emily, with their green robes 
drawn around them, pure but austere, the chaperons of 
the entrancing scene. 

It is the Grand Ronde, and when I see it with its green 
fields, its walls of green and blue and white and gray, 
I forget, earth, paradise, heaven, everything in the uni- 
verse save God and rapture, and the waters sing and the 
mills rumble and the happy cattle nuzzle in the emerald 
fields, and I am content to stay, spring, summer, autumn, 
among the winning scenes. 

I see it in my dreams, the valley of the Grand Ronde, 
which lies a bounteous plain just where the river comes 
out of the bosom of the Blue mountains, Oregon's water- 
bottles, where the blue birds and larks and robins sing 
among the apple orchards and the wheat fields and pas- 
tures carpet the earth with green, and the sheep look down 
from the mountain sides and smile at the cattle in the 
fields below, while Nature sighs with content at the 
picture she has painted. 

* * * 

Content has one of her most beautiful homes on earth 
in Pine Valley, where the stream wanders out from 
among the ice caves of the Powder River mountains and 
goes to play between the peach and apple orchards and 
pastures among the homes of men. 

They have heard about the outside world, the people 
there in Pine Valley, but they don't care to go away and 



8 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

see it. They had rather look up at the blue robe of heaven 
overhead, at the glittering peaks of gold and silver and 
gray and white vi^here their river is born, at the warm 
pine-clad arms which fold them in on either side and at 
their own rich fields and orchards and quiet homes than 
at a striving world of kings outside. 

And when I saw their complacency and the beauty of 
their surroundings I forgot the blue waters of the sea, the 
odor of the orange groves, the glimmer of the lakes and 
the song of the waterfalls in the mountain where I had 
wandered. My gaze and mind were so engaged that I 
had no time to think of other beauties. This valley of 
delight was enough for me, if autumn and spring could 
always last, and if any flaws had come to mar its beauty, 
man had made them, for I cannot think that Nature can 
have done a more perfect piece of work anywhere on earth 
than she had done right here. 

The valley begins among the beetling crags of the 
Powder River mountains, where the snow peaks pierce 
the sky ten thousand feet, and stretches twenty miles or 
more between the pine-clad hills, until it sinks away among 
the gray shoulders to the south. Its floor is covered for 
miles of verdant width with rich and level fields, among 
which winds the creek with its banks of willows and cot- 
tonwoods; and when I stood on the mountain side and 
viewed its loveliness I forgqt that man was wicked and 
that there was any other place than Paradise and that this 
was not it. 




A DAUGHTER OF WASHINGTON. 

On the shores of the Sapphire Sea she first saw the sun on 
November 11th, 1889, the day that President Harrison 
signed the bill which made Washington a state. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 9 

A million balls of gold gleamed among the emerald 
leaves, the bees hummed a narcotic refrain while they bur- 
rowed in the hearts of the orange blossoms, and I stretched 
myself in the hammock beneath the pepper tree and forgot 
that Covina was not Paradise. 

The attar of the waxen orange blossoms beguiled my 
senses, the mocking bird warbled on the feather of a palm, 
and I was lost amid the ecstacy of sound and sight and 
smell. 

The rose hedge blushed and the big magnolia blossoms 
reflected back the southern sun, while the grape-fruit trees 
drank from the San Gabriel until their amber spheres 
could hold no more. 

True the mountains looked gray and discouraged, but 
they only accentuated the bounteous green of the valley 
below, made so by the life which flowed from their gen- 
erous breasts. They are the treasure houses of life to 
which the dwellers of the teeming Paradise below go for 
stores of riches and of beauty; a burned oak frame for a 
bewitching picture, a bulwark from the northern gales. 

Under the pavilions on Smiley Heights I forgot Para- 
dise and heaven for the time being, while I inhaled the 
odors from the orange groves below and gazed into the 
wilderness of roses, geraneums, clematis and passion flow- 
ers and listened to the fountains and canaries and mocking 
birds sing. 

Time is a dream and toil a vision while the palm leaves 
rustle overhead and the century plant mists honey for the 



10 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

drunken bees, and the flowers catch blushes from the sun- 
beams, while the oranges draw rich gold from the soil 
which is forced to give it up by the workmen furnished 
by the San Gabriel as they gently caress the rootlets which 
they feed. The town below is but a toy village arranged 
to suit a perfect fancy, and if there is anything in it which 
would do violence to my dream, distance and the orange 
groves obscure the disturbing features, and I realize noth- 
ing but the nearer beauties, and lapse back into the etherial 
influences of the day and place and let my contented blood 
run slow while I forget. 

* * * 

One's sense of taste, coupled with sight and smell, can 
make one forget time, the end of time and even Paradise. 
The sweetness and beauty of a San Jose prune orchard, a 
Fresno vineyard when the grapes give a good smell and 
the new wine clamors to escape from its purple cells, a 
Santa Rosa peach orchard, with its gold-and-red carpet 
beneath the trees and luscious globes of downy sweetness 
still hanging to the pendant boughs, any of these appeal- 
ing influences would serve to absorb. 

I forgot, while the rich juice gurgled through my teeth 
and bewitched my lips and palate, as I gathered from the 
burdened branches and gazed upon the golden carpet far, 
far away beneath the rows of trees, forgot Paradise, but 
remembered the millions of my kind who could not have 
what man's greed was here allowing to go to waste^ 

When I saw the purple clusters gleaming among a 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 11 

thousand acres of leafy vines along the Sacramento and 
San Joaquin I forgot that there was anything but rich- 
ness and the royal life tints of the grape; and the Sierra 
Nevadas smiled down benignly upon the opulence which 
their bounteous flow had created in the places where once 
a burning desert reigned, and the poppies blazed on the 
hills and the honey flowed from the rocks, and the giant 
sequoia and redwoods keep their silent watch since the 
days when the penitent thief hung on the cross and the 
Man of Galilee told him of that Paradise which I have 

forgot. 

*- * * 

The ocean hums a deep toned dirge while it weeps 
against the shores of Mendocino, Humboldt and Del 
Norte, and the green headlands hold it back while it 
dashes in its vain attempt to destroy the earth. The 
pretty homes nestle behind the sheltering headlands beside 
the waters of their placid lakes and smile in comfort from 
among the evergreens and maples and alders, while the 
singing streams warble down from the curtain of the green 
and blue mountain sides against the eastern sky. I can 
have the moaning of the restless ocean here as well as the 
peaceful shelter of my mother earth, and I forget that 
there is anj^where else in all the world but these dreamy 
nooks along the ocean, where the meadow lark and robin 
are at home so close to where the sea birds scream and 
wheel, and the sun sinks into the deep below the western 
sky, and the ships go by whether to return or no I cannot 
tell. 



12 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

When I go through the three worlds in Western Ore- 
gon I forget that they are a part of that larger world. 
Jacksonville is the capital of one beautiful little world 
which is guarded on all sides by walls of eternal moun- 
tains; Roseburg is the capital of another; then comes that 
greater world around which all the others circle, the hub 
of which is rich old Portland. Jackson and Douglas may 
be the sparkling satellites, but the Willamette is the cen- 
ter of the orbit around which they revolve. There is only 
one better place in the universe than this, its dwellers 
think, and the jewelled white fingers of Mts. Hood, Jef- 
ferson and St. Helens point toward it. A thousand 
bounteous fields smile when they think of it, thousands of 
elegant country homes draw their exclusive robes around 
them and retire into their bursting opulence when they 
contemplate the favors nature has bestowed upon them, 
the bachelor buttons fleck the green sky of the fields, the 
iris and the syringa gleam on the hillsides and the moun- 
tains of blue and green and white guard the scene, while 
Eugene, Corvallis, Albany, Salem and a hundred other 
cities and towns cling like jewels to the silver ribbon of 
the Willamette. If one must remember all the time, to 
get to Paradise^ I fear that many of the dwellers along 
this beautiful stream will never reach the ever vernal 
shores, for nature has conspired with human fancy to make 
them forget while gazing at the nearer beauties around 
them, the eternal ever vernal shores of the far beyond. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 13 

If the grandeur, the sylvan beauty and the pastoral de- 
light of all the world was boiled down into one beguiling 
scene it could not be more potent to engage the enrap- 
tured view than is the Columbia River from The Dalles 
to Portland. I have been told that this is the greatest 
river in volume which springs from the bosom of mother 
earth. I do not know, but this I know : its mighty stream 
and wonderful shores are a dream. Its depths sweep in 
and out among the towering crags; the snowy peaks are 
not too old to play peak-a-boo behind the doorways of the 
mighty canyons and green-clad pinnacles of a thousand 
beautiful mountains. The silver streamer of Multnomah 
and the glimmer of the Bridal Veil, a hundred pastures 
and a thousand clinging homes, all, all conspire to make 
the traveler forget that there is a veil of tears, to forget 
that there may be a place more pretty, more beautiful, 
more grand, or more enduring in its delights. 
* * * 

Could earth and water be more beautifully arranged 
than they are on Puget Sound ? Green mountains bathing 
their feet in emerald and sapphire depths, a thousand coves 
and nooks among the evergreens and fields, mysterious 
passages and placid bays, and long reaches where are re- 
flected the great snow peaks beyond. 

I thought, as I stood on the top of old Mt. Constitu- 
tion and gazed around, that man was little and the world 
so big that he could never fill it. The view is a dream. 
The world is silent up there, only the tinkle of the sheep 



14 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

bell down on the mountain side, or the saucy bark of the 
squirrel nearer by breaks the stillness. We are above the 
moil of man, and distance hides the scars that he has made, 
still we can see a thousand signs of his play, from the 
belching steamship away yonder, plowing in from the 
broad Pacific, to the feathery sailboat gliding up the Sound 
like a bit of down lost from some sea bird's breast. 

The lake glimmers among the evergreens half way down 
the mountain side as the hungry trout leaps from its limpid 
depths and sends the wavelets circling toward the shore, 
the farms of Orcas, like brown and green plats upon a 
checker-board, sleep in the summer sun. Farther over the 
fields of San Juan smile among the evergreens, and Lopez 
and Fidalgo and Whidby with their orchards and fields 
stud the Sound with richness, while its waters wind in 
and out among a myriad of lesser islands. 

Yonder along the feet of the mighty Cascades stretches 
a land of plenty from Vancouver to Tacoma, and to the 
south and west silent and grim, with rocks and evergreens 
and snow bejewelled crowns, cluster the Olympics, at the 
feet of which nestle Olympia, Shelton, Port Townsend 
and Port Angeles. 

Away to the west stretches that gem of the ocean, Van- 
couver island, with its snowy peaks and hiding lakes, its 
pretty homes and tumbling streams. 

While we stand on this mountain we can see here and 
there a steamer creeping in and out among the hiding 
villages along the shores of the inquisitive waters, yonder 




WHERE THE MOCKING BIRD MAKES MUSIC IN THE 
ORANGE GROVES. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 15 

along the blue range of the Cascade foothills a crawling 
train with its trail of ebon smoke; down on some little 
bay a silent puffing mill among the evergreens, and all 
about the toy villages — fifty of them — of men and women 
who have been at play along the shores and beside the 
mountains. 

Yonder is Seattle, the Queen City of the Sound, with 
its thickly sprinkled hills and restless energy; over at our 
right the Queen City of British Columbia, Victoria, the 
city of eleven lakes; at our left the beautiful tumbling 
waters of Whatcom, and at our back the Royal City of 
Westminster and the Gate City, Vancouver, of Western 
Canada. 

These scenes of the sapphire sea make one forget in 
summer time that he can live in any other part of the 
world, make one almost forget that there is a Paradise, a 
heaven, which may outdo these absorbing beauties. 

Southwestern British Columbia, like a golden horn of 
plenty with a rim of jewelled mountains sparkling around 
its beautiful bell, its sweeping river plied, between com- 
fortable homes, by a fleet of busy steamers and white- 
winged ships, its deep blue harbors a mirror for the snow- 
clad peaks which hem them in, its delightful park and gems 
of cities. New Westminster and Vancouver, its mysteri- 
ous island, upon which sits the queen of the province, Vic- 
toria, with its entrancing scenery; and Nanaimo with its 
swarm of sea craft, its bewitching nooks and bays and 



18 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

waterfalls, and those other rich, beautiful isles. Queen 
Charlottes. A land of peace and plenty which wooes 
to forgetfulness of less favored realms, and whose joys of 
living nurture neglect of preparation for Paradise. 



Alaska, the unknown, the land where fields of golden 
grain are throbbing to burst from the less worthy sands 
of gold, a thousand islands, bays, lakes, mighty rivers, an 
army of glistening snow peaks, millions of acres of flow- 
er-flecked plains, awaiting the grateful scratching of the 
farmer's plow to yield a world of bread. Juneau, Sitka, 
Skagway nestling among their emerald isles, where the 
cedars and the firs sing seconds to the harp of the sea; 
Dawson, where bubbles up the golden flood of the Klon- 
dike; Nome, with its glittering sands and latent plains; 
Tanana, and gold, gold, gold, awaiting in the yet un- 
grown but possible fields of waving grain, and hiding in 
the sands and rocks, and one forgets, while exploring this 
interesting and unknown land, that he belongs in Paradise 
and that there is but one bridge which leads with its sev- 
enty arches of short years from this terrestrial evergreen 
shore to the etherial realms beyond, from which no trav- 
eler has e'er returned to tell of beauties which we can but 
imagine from comparing with these, which we have felt 
and seen. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 17 

SUCCESS. 

In the sweet by and by, 
Not on some other shore, 

But on this hope has pictured success, 
When our dream shall be true 
And our faith shall be sight, 

And we'll joy in sweet Fancy's caress. 

Oh, that sweet by and by. 
How it brightens the eye. 

While we strive for the comforts of life ; 
And we win if we fail. 
When we honestly toil 

And make a good fight in the strife. 

Sometime, by and by. 
We are sure we shall win, 

And cheerfully forward we press; 
While hope spurs us on 
With the faith that some day 

We shall bask in the arms of Success. 

If we make a good fight 
In the battle of life, 

Our conscience with comfort will bless, 
And eternity's page 
Will be written across 

With the magical name of Success. 



3-8 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

What we gather in life 
Does not prove in the strife 

That we've won in the struggle below; 
We fail if we win, 
If our ways will not bear 

The light of eternity's glow. 



MY BOYS AND GIRLS. 

The girls I meet are flowers to me — 
I always view them so — 

From glorious magnolia 
To pumpkin bloom below. 

All flowers are perfect in their way, 
If viewed with kindly eye ; 

Their fairest charms are often missed 
By heedless passer-by. 

My Kate's a royal jacquiminot. 

And Mary a wild rose; 
Gertrude a purple clematis 

Which by my window grows. 
My Eloise a passion flower, 

And Jane a primrose fair. 
While Ruth's a forest orchid. 

So gentle and so rare. 
Grace was a sensitive plant so frail, 

Ethel a golden rod, 



THE SUNSET SHORE. =19 

And Winnifred a violet 

Beside the path I trod. 
Vesta a snow-white pansy 

And Marguerite sweet pea; 
Naomi a pink daisy 

My Father gave to me. 
Rachel a carnation, 

Louise a trillium ; 
A lily Leonora, 

From Paradise has come. 
Forget-me-not is Josephine, 

Who grows beside the rock; 
A climbing rose is sweet Clarice, 

Sarah a hollyhock. 

In boys, I see so many trees 

Which grow within the wood. 
And some are grand, and some are strong. 

And some are not so good ; 
And some are fair to look upon, 

Others are rough and plain. 
While some have grown so crooked 

It gives my heart a pain. 

John is a fir tree tall and strong, 

Dick is a riven oak, 
Charlie a crooked willow 

Whose branches have been broke. 
Rob is a hollow sycamore. 



20 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Joseph an apple tree ; 
Maurice a cedar, Paul a birch — 

An alder Ed I see. 
Harry a basswood, George an elm, 

A maple Valentine; 
A prickly spruce is Willie, 

A poplar David, tall; 
While Thomas is a quaking asp. 

Whose heart dark doubts appall. 
Samuel, the balm of Gilead, 

And Peter hickory. 
I see in Albert singing pine, 

Who stands beside my way. 
Luther's an eucaliptus, 

And James a redwood tree. 
Justin's the fairest tree of all. 

The palm, or ought to be. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 21 

THE PRICE OF LOVE. 

You say you bought her with a big bouquet 

Of Marechal Neils and Jacquiminots, 

And now that you have got her 

She's not the joy your fancy painted her — 

A disappointment and regret, 

And not the treasure that j'ou thought her. 

Strange. Why, with such a price, 

You should have won a paragon 

Of loveliness and worth and all that's true? 

But was it one bouquet? 

I fear you have forgotten since the day 

You paid the purchase price 

And placed her under bonds 

To with fresh vintage 

Oft renew the price her fancy treasured. 

Such fancies are not necessary now, 

Since you've secured the prize 

Sought by the lust of your delighted eyes. 

Oh, I see, 'tis self you love. 

Well, love yourself; 

Then if others do not love you 

You will have at least some love. 

But remember this, no treasure is secured for nought; 

There must be rendered up a fair exchange. 

Hearts are not bought with lust. 



22 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

The price to pay for loveliness and truth 

Is honest heart for honest heart. 

Try that, and then I promise you 

Your purchase will another creature seem, 

Fulfilling every fancy of your dream — 

A treasure precious 

And a joy to soul and sense. 



THE DOLLAR BUG. 



The dollar bug lives in a desert drear 

Where nothing lovely grows, 
Where the sun shines hot every day in the year 

And it never rains or snows. 

But the dollar bug works with all his might, 

And never rests or sleeps; 
He's afraid that something will roll away 

In spite of the watch he keeps. 

The dollar bug's soul is measured off 
By a string of figures and noughts; 

They worry him all the burning day 
Like a swarm of buzzing bots. 

He works all day and he dreams all night 
Of the heaps he is piling up; 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 23 

Sometimes he steals his neighbor's dirt 
While his neighbor stops to sup. 

But why does the dollar bug work so hard 

And cause himself such pain? 
Why, he dreamed, while his eyes were open wide, 

That some day it would rain. 



THE SHORTEST HOUR. 

The shortest hour in all the day- 
How fast the moments fly — 

Is just the time you should arise 
But still in bed you lie. 

You knew at five when you awoke 
At six you should be dressed, 

But now you know you can't succeed 
Although you do your best. 

You only yawned and stretched yourself 

And snuggled down in bed. 
"Oh my! I must have been asleep!" 

When seven struck, you said. 

It only seemed a moment since 
You heard the clock strike five. 

And stretching out for one more wink 
Were glad you were alive. 



24 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

But, oh, the clock, how fast it went. 

Regardless of your fate, 
And of your woe when you should wake 

And find yourself so late. 

The minutes are but seconds short, 
The hours but minutes seem. 

While stretching out for that last rest 
So comfortably you dream. 

So now a tardy mark you'll get, 

Maybe a reprimand, 
Because about the swiftest time 

You didn't understand. 

And while you hurry on your clothes. 
With lips all puckered sour, 

You know the minutes last in bed 
Make up the shortest hour. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 25 

SOMEWHERE ELSE. 

The glow of dawn creeps through my room, 

While I am listening to the bells, 
A strange unrest is in my heart — 

I'm wishing I was somewhere else. 

Why need I? Everything is mine; 

All 'round me are earth's beauteous things — 
Its wonders in the silent rocks, 

The flower that blooms, the bird that sings. 

A rain-drop falls upon my hand ; 

I stop and look and meditate; 
In it I see a tumbling stream, 

Where silent mountains grimly wait. 
I see the lakelet in the wood, 

And rushing rivers, deep and wide. 
I travel far and I behold 

The restless ocean's mighty tide. 

A mossy rock lies in my path; 

I pause and look, and far away 
I see the mighty peaks arise 

Whose gorges dim the light of day. 
I look upon a little shrub 

Which brushes me as I pass by — 
A forest stretches far away. 

Whose branches hide the vaulted sky. 



ZS THE SUNSET SHORE. 

I feel the silence of the wood, 

And listen to the breezes play 
Among the singing leaves above 

While I go through its shadowy way. 

On yonder corner, standing there, 

I see a man — one man alone — 
And mighty cities far away 

Before me rise from zone to zone. 
And seeing one I see them all, 

With tower and spire and streets athrong, 
With din and roar and rush and strife. 

Men, men astir the whole day long. 

I pluck a meek forget-me-not. 

Which blooms beside my pathway fair, 
And gazing in its tender eye 

See Paradise with verdure rare. 
I smell the orange groves afar — 

The palms upon a thousand hills; 
Earth's every song and scene are mine. 

Each rising view my being thrills. 

I've wandered over all the earth, 
And listening to the ringing bells, 

I'm sitting in my room tonight 

Still wishing I was somewhere else. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 27 



CONTENT. 



What a sweet, sweet world is this old world, 

When it blossoms out in spring; 
When the busy bees are humming 

And the birds begin to sing. 

What a bright, bright world is this old world, 

When summer has come to stay, 
And the cornfields whisper, the trees laugh, 

And the sun shines every day. 

What a rich, rich world is this old world 

When the autumn daj^s are here. 
When the barns and bins and cribs are full 

And the orchards yield their cheer. 

What a kind, kind world is this old world 

In the fireside's cheerful glow. 
When the earth in peaceful quiet rests. 

Wrapped in its cloak of snow. 



28 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



A PEACE CONVENTION. 

Bill Skids lived on a western range, 

A cattle lord was he; 
He rode the swiftest cayuse 

You would have a chance to see. 

His lariat and gun were true; 

He didn't fear a thing 
Of men or beasts or birds or snakes 

The country round could bring. 

He rounded up, as free as air, 

A township, more or less; 
None interferred or crossed his path, 

Or dared a tax assess. 

Upon his swift cayuse Bill rode 

Across the plain one day, 
When suddenly a barb-wire fence 

He spied across his way. 

Bill stood aghast that any dare 

Encroach on his domain; 
Then swore the builder of the fence 

With gore the grass should stain. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. . 29 

But Farmer Binks, who built the fence, 

Had come to stay, he said; 
And said if Bill could swear things blue 

That he could make things red. 

One day the cowboys came along 

To cut the farmer's fence — 
They carried home a man or two — • 

Thus did the war commence. 

Next at the farmer's hired man 

Our William took a shot; 
Then back and forth the farmers 

And cattle herders fought. 
Until, at last, no one was left 

But Bill and Binks to fight. 
When gentle Parson Jones stepped in 

And tried to set things right. 

Bill told the parson that as sure 

As William was his name 
He'd have the scalp of Farmer Binks, 

Or Binks would have his same. 

Then Binks the parson interviewed, 

With little more success, 
To try and fetch about a truce 

And straighten out the mess. 



30- THE SUNSET SHORE. 

At last the parson's wish prevailed, 
And him the men to please, 

Agreed to have a meeting 
And try and patch up peace. 

So long-haired Bill and sturdy Binks 
They wandered in one day 

And at the table stationed each 
In a suspicious way. 

The parson beamed with pure delight 
To think that peace had won, 

Although there'd been no shaking hands 
Or even smiling done. 

And back and forth he smiling passed 

Between the frowning men, 
Until, when coming through the door. 

He looked at both, and then 
He saw, beneath Bill's coat tails. 

Two shining pistol butts; 
And bulged from Binks' hip pockets, 

As slow the door he shuts. 
He sees two Smith & Wessons glint 

Before his startled eyes. 
And sorrow flits across his face. 

No matter how he tries. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 31 

With ardor cooled, the preacher talks 

Of quietude and peace, 
Until he talks himself quite out. 

And still has failed to please. 

At last the meeting is adjourned, 

The parson mentions, grave: 
"Hip pockets loaded down with guns 

Are not the things to have 
When 'peace conventions' meet to try 

And straighten out affairs." 
And then the men backed frowning out 

And left him to his cares. 



OUR STEPS. 
Prov. 16:9. 



Where flowers and birds and waving trees 
Shall all our joyous senses please — 
All buoyant-hearted, we devise 
Our earthly way, through Paradise. 
O'er deserts drear and mountains high, 
Which all our weary senses try, 
God shapes our steps, to our surprise. 
Which end at last in Paradise. 



32 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

THE MILL STARTS UP. 

The somber clouds have cleared away, and brighter days 

have come, 
And mother, singing, goes about our humble little home. 
On father's ofttimes troubled face a smile begins to play, 
The M^hole house is more cheerful now — the mill starts 

up today. 

Now mother dear can have the dress she's needed, oh, so 

long. 
And brother Dick a pair of shoes and stockings good and 

strong ; 
And father he can go to church, and need not stay away 
Because a shabby coat he wears — the mill starts up today. 

The coal bin now will be filled up as full as it can pack. 
We'll never need go picking up along the railroad track. 
The children with their books will have a little time to 

play 
Life will look brighter now for them — the mill starts up 

today. 

The winter does not look so fierce, nor make us shiver so 
Since pa and Will can be at work while frosty breezes 

blow ; 
So we will thank the Lord, so good, for blessings when 

we pray — 
For hope for everybody, when the mill starts up today. 




w. 




THE GIANT'S SHADOWS, IN THE YOSEMITE. 




VERNAL FALLS. 




THE RIVERS CHILDHOOD 




BANNER PEAK, CALIFORNIA. 












1* * -4 31 



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■7," 



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THE SUNSET SHORE. 33 

THE CROSS IN THE STREET. 

'Twas a daughter of the King 
Standing on the street to sing; 
With His Spirit in her face, 
And with holy virgin grace 
She the sweet old story told 
Of the Shepherd and the fold. 

Dressed in blue with bonnet plain, 

She the Way did there explain 

To the noisy lookers on, 

Who with jeerings now begun; 

Then with missiles all defiled 

They assailed her while she smiled; 

Smeared her saintly form and face, 

While she prayed for Jesus' grace. 

And a blessing begged for them — 

That they, too, might come to Him, 

Who would cleanse their hearts from sin, 

And their lives and service win — 

Give them love instead of hate. 

And avert an awful fate. 

While she looked up into heaven. 
Praying they might be forgiven. 
From the crowd a stranger stepped — 
In his heart he silent wept 
That a daughter of the King 



S4 THE SUNSET SHORB. 

Must needs suffer such a thing, 
While she harbored only love 
From the Father up above, 
For the ones with sin so wild. 
Who assailed her while she smiled. 

To her side the stranger stepped, 
Tears of pity there he wept. 
And with his silk handkerchief 
Wiped away for her relief 
All the stains upon her face. 
Feeling there the Master's grace; 
Stepping thus into the Way, 
Leading to eternal day, 
Soon received eternal life, 
And all freedom from the strife 
Which assails the human heart, 
While from God it is apart. 

Thus from persecution grew 
In one soul salvation true; 
Thus the Master's work is done, 
Till the coming of the Son, 
When the saints who march the street 
Shall rejoice at Jesus' feet. 
And with him his reign enjoy 
Free from bitter sin's alloy. 
San Francisco, 1885. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 35 



SECOND CHILDHOOD. 

You say she's wrinkled, old and gray, 

And childish, cross and plain, — 

Forgetful of the things that passed an hour ago, 

To hear it gives my heart a solemn pain. 

That she forgets the names of friends, 

And asks with childish smile of things 

Which happened her but moments since, 

Of which, still on the air her merry laughter rings. 

And so I need expect to see no more 

The one I knew in years gone by. 

The weaving grace has left her willowy form, 

The clouds of age now dim her sparkling eye, 

And questions now upon a thousand things 

She asks, and then forgetting, asks again, 

And goes about from room to room. 

And tells demurely things which she has never seen, 

I would not see the battered house 

Of what was once so fair — 

In form, in feature and in blooming mind — 

To rob me of the memorj' of one so rare, 

'Twere better far, the distant view of beauty's charms, 

Than see the wreck relentless Time — 

With pity seared and heart grown cold — 

Has worked upon her form in solemn rhyme. 



36 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

But memory views the woman blithe 
Of thirty, as handsome as e'er seen — 
With curving neck, as graceful as a swan's. 
And head held proud as any queen; 
With swaying form, like slender willow ; 
A face above speaking of treasures rare; 
Eye like a sparkling mountain brook; 
Tresses of shining ebon hair. 

Sought then by friends unnumbered, 
Her intellect and beauty ruled supreme; 
And men — the best in all the land — 
Linked with her future their vain dream ; 
And women gathered round her. 
That by chance they might inoculate 
Some essence, from her blest presence, 
That might less favored caskets permeate. 

Still there it is, a soul gone wool gathering. 

To never more return, until that day, 

When clothed again in habiliments of youth. 

Clouds swept from off the sky away, 

It stands before the Judge, 

And taking on its prime. 

Appears again restored, in beauteous strength, 

Beyond the walls of time. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. t7 



A MANTLE. 
To Hide Feelings. 

Miss Feelings a beautiful mantle craved 

To hide her from the gaze 
Of people who often saw in her form 

Things which they could not praise. 

She first sought out the weaver Deceit, 

Who boasted wonderful skill, 
And agreed without a moment's delay 

The miss's order to fill. 

The mantle was bought, it was fair to see, 

The price was blushes and fears. 
But it seemed to screen from the prying gaze. 

And protect from showers of tears. 

But the days flew by — they were very few 

Till the robe in tatters hung. 
And Miss Feelings' unlovely form was ttte theme 

Of many a busy tongue. 

It was then she knew, with sad regret. 

That Deceit was a weaver vain, 
And among the cunning woofs and warps 

For a mantle she sought again. 



38 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

At last she found the weaver Love, 

Who vv^ove her a modest robe, 
And never through it could the prying eye 

Down into her secrets probe. 

The mantle which Love for Miss Feelings wove 

By wearing grew more strong, 
And when she felt its comforting folds 

There sprung to her heart a song. 

She said, while she smiled at all about, 

"No mantles are quite so fine 
As those which the weaver Love can weave 

Who knitted this robe of mine." 

None ever thought, as they looked at her, 

That under her mantle of love 
Miss Feelings might carry the marks of pain, 

For her robe was prepared above. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 39 



AN IMPOSSIBLE WOMAN. 

A uniform was naught to her, 

Heroes of war but murderers. 

She heard unmoved the trumpet's blare, 

Frowned with contempt when marching by 

The troops received the loud acclaims 

Of women with a weaker poise. 

When flowers were heaped with lavish hand 
By maids upon returning troops, 
She rather would adhere to one 
Who never shed a foeman's blood. 
Declaring she had no esteem 
For men who chose the bloody trade 
Of war, and sought to gain renown 
By doing that for which men hang. 

This woman boldly stemmed the flood 
Of maudlin sentiment for "the brave," 
And censorious openly affirmed 
That woman caudled war 
Because of her vain love of ^ow. 
And that a knave in uniform 
Was more set by in many eyes 
Than true and honest worth. 



40 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

So long as woman caudled up 

And petted epaulets and spurs, 

And worshiped brass and plumes 

And lauded open murder, 

The cannon's roar would sound. 

The searching bullets sing. 

And poets rant and rave, 

And war, the last resort 

Of craven mercenaries, rage. 

When woman gives a proper estimate 

To brazen flaunting crime, 

And scorns the perpetrators of it, 

The bugle blast will change 

To worthy hymns of peace. 

And war drums beat to blows of honest toil. 

Such sentiments this woman taught, 
And lived them, too, as well ; 
And turned her back upon 
The tawdry furniture of heroes. 
While her fellows puled about 
The minions of the sword 
She stood, a fair protest 
Against the bloody trade of war. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 41 



THE DESERTED HOMESTEAD. 

I've been to the old place today, 
Where we lived so many years — 

Where we laughed our merriest laughter, 
And shed our bitterest tears. 

I wandered out among the weeds, 
Where we planted in the spring, 

And gathered in the autumn. 
Increase from everything. 

I sat in your old chair, wife, 

The one you loved the best. 
In which, when tired at evening. 

You used to sit and rest. 

The old spring's covered up with weeds, 

I could not get a drink; 
But sat me down upon the bank 

Beside it there to think. 

The path down which the children trooped 

To meet me when I came 
Is hid 'neath drooping grasses wet, 

And does not look the same. 

The birds and mice have taken charge 

Of the old house and shed. 
And nothing but the legs and slats 

Are left of the high bed. 



42 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

The old long cedar table, 

'Round which we used to meet, 

Is covered over with blue mold, 
And nothing there to eat. 

The chairs, all lonely sit arow 
Along the old log walls, 

Upon their home-made backs and seats 
Askance a sunbeam falls. 

The cradle sits beside the door, 
A Avaist hangs on its rail; 

I cannot hear, though listening hard, 
A little one's sweet wail. 

The orchard grows among the weeds, 
With briar and bramble filled ; 

And birds and rabbits roam about 
The grounds we often tilled. 

The old home place calls up the j^ears 
Of toil and hope gone by. 

When prospects of the coming day 
Encouraged you and I. 

The lake in quiet beauty lies 

Among the forest green, 
Just as it did in those old years 

When we came on the scene. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 4S 

A few more dwellings round it sit 

And mirror in its face; 
The waters sparkle just as bright, 

And you would know the place. 

But turn away I must and move 

Among the rushing throng; 
Such quiet scenes and memories sweet — 

They cannot keep me long. 

Good-bye, old place, I'll come again, 

And drink your quiet in, 
And breathe your restful solitude. 

Where comes no taint of sin. 



^^mff^ 



44 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



SHE. 

I dreamed for her a life more fair 
Than sunshine dancing in her hair. 
And I shall see it in her eyes — 
It shall come true in Paradise. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 46 

A BOOK. 

Words and paper and cloth and thread, 

And perhaps a touch of glue — 
A little gold to adorn a name, 

And that is a book to you. 

But a book to me, my patient friend, 

Is a thousand things unsaid — 
Of sentiment and toil and care, 

And never can be read. 

A book is a troubled sleepless couch, 

Whose pillows are filled with thoughts, 

Which tramp, like a restless army in. 
To the waking mind unsought. 

A book is a form in blankets wrapped, 

Who at the dead of night 
Impales a dream on a pencil point 

To a sheet of paper white. 

A book is a walk through the silent streets, 
While her fellows puled about 

And the moon wades muffled through the sky, 
And the stars their watches keep. 

The book's words are the footprint marks 

Of a restless spirit's feet — 
From out the soul of a weeping pen 

To the page of the snowy sheet. 



4S THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Paper, and cloth, and words and thread 
Are the things that you can see 

Of the book, which in a silent voice 
Calls a thousand forms to me. 

A book is all, all, all to me, 
And more than I can tell — 

A shattered chain, a crumbling wall. 
Which held a soul in spell, 

Until a rescuing trio came, 

And Thought and Hand and Pen 

Set free from the prison house the soul 
To sing its song to men. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 47 



INSPIRATION. 

Of all things in this strange world a mortal to surprise 
A poet's inspiration is the queerest in my eyes. 
As frequently as any way it is not he who writes 
When sonatas and symphonies adorn his stilly nights. 
A strong cigar or glass of wine's as like to draw him out, 
Or a mince pie or oyster stew may put fair sleep to rout, 
And then the poet can't be held accountable at all 
For rhymes or poems strange or sweet which from his pen- 
cil fall. 

This one about the lily a cup of coffee penned ; 
I'm sure that when he drank the stuff he never did intend 
To scramble from his bed and write a poem great or small, 
But after he had swallowed it he could not sleep at all; 
His nerves were dancing while he tossed and tried to 

wheedle sleep, 
And from the realms of fancy's flight his mind he could 

not keep; 
So creeping from his restless couch, without a thought of 

clothes, 
He wrote on this, while, lo, the air wrote pink upon his 

nose. 

This song so sweet of gentle spring, and flowers and vine 
and rock, 



48 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Was written by some pork and beans he ate at twelve 

o'clock. 
It was a slice of sausage moved his body, mind and hand, 
When he — its humble instrument — this witching fabric 

planned 
Upon the butterfly, and bee, and birds of paradise. 
Which floated in his mind because he couldn't close his 

eyes. 

A plate of doughnuts, fruit or cake borne to the poet's bed 
May through his stomach cultivate communion with his 

head, 
And thus the pastry cook or chef with wooing wares, it 

seems, 
May furnish inspiration for the poet's wakeful dreams, 
Which penning, while in misery his appetite he rues. 
Are, by the world, accredited to visits of the muse. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 49 



NATURE'S ADORNMENTS. 

Clouds but add glory to the landscape of the sky. 
Rain is but tear drops from fair Nature's eye, 
(She sheds because her fretful children cry) 
The lightning but blushes, and the wind a sigh. 

Flowers are but jewels to adorn the seasons fair. 
Bright Spring wears pearls among her shining hair. 
Crimson and sapphire deck the Summer rare, 
While Autumn and Winter gold and diamonds wear. 



60 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE WORST TROUBLES. 

They say that all lives of trouble are full, 

And I partly believe it is true, 
For we fret for the things we haven't done, 

As well as the things we do. 
Some worry for health and some for wealth 

And some for honor and fame, 
But most of the troubles I ever had 

Were troubles that never came. 

Listen, my son, I once was young, 

But now I am old and gray; 
Most of my life is past and gone, 

And I have seen my day. 
I once was strong, and frisky, and spry, 

But now I am stiff and lame; 
But most of the troubles I ever had 

Were troubles that never came. 

To hold our own in the struggling world 

Our life is a constant fight; 
Some strive all the day reputation to keep, 

And walk the floor half the night. 
We worry about our expenses and debts. 

And fear for our treasured good name. 
But most of the troubles I ever had 

Were troubles that never came. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 51 

If we till the soil we fear it will rain, 

Or drougth will the crops destroy; 
Or an early frost, or a late, may be, 

Will blight our expected joy. 
Of ratings and profits and losses. 

In business we worry the same. 
But most of the troubles I ever had 

Were troubles that never came. 

So my advice, my son, to you — 

For I haven't got long to stay — 
Is to never cross a shaky bridge 

Before you pass that way. 
Don't fret about the losses and gains. 

Before you get in the game ; 
For most of the troubles I ever had 

Were troubles that never came. 




62 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



"POLLY SUNBEAM." 

"My name is Polly Sunbeam; 

My papa calls me that; 
I'm out to take an airing, 

And this is my new hat. 

"My name is Polly Sunbeam, 

My doUie's name is Grace; 
She used to be quite pretty 

Before I washed her face, 
But now she's old and fady — 

Same as a wilty rose, 
For that is what my papa says, 

And I just guess he knows. 

"My papa he gets funny, 
And mamma washed his face 

When she was washing dishes ; 
I tell you he's a case. 

"What I got in this paper? 

I bet you couldn't guess. 
I bought it for a penny 

Where I got dollie's dress. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 53 

"Yes, my name is Polly Sunbeam, 

But I must go along, 
Or mamma'U think I'm losted. 

And then there'll be a song. 

Good-bye! Just come and see us, 

Tomorrow if you can, 
And bring your wife and babies." 

Then down the street she ran. 
Nooksack, Washington. 



IT. 



You're never it. 
No matter how your own importance seems, 
Or how self admiration fills your waking dreams-, 

You're never it. 

You're never it. 
Though your whole being with conceit's instilled, 
If you step out your place will soon be filled ; 

You're never it. 



54 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



DON'T WHINE. 

Don't whine, my boy, 
But smile, no matter how things go, 
A whine will never dry the rain or drive away the snow. 

Don't whine. 

Don't whine, my boy. 
Success may come next time to you, 
If you but keep on striving and be true. 

Don't whine. 

Don't whine, my boy. 
The world will never stop to sympathize, 
But it will cheer the man who smiles and tries. 

Don't whine. 

Don't whine, my boy, 
The world may pity in disgust 
The whiner, but will never trust. 

Don't whine. 

Don't whine, my boy. 
Keep self-respect until the battle's done; 
No matter how it goes, one victory will be won. 

Don't whine. 



I forget the dark clouds when I look in her face. 
So bright is her smile and so charming her grace. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 55 



WHEAT FIELDS. 



Did you ever see the wheat fields 

In the beauty of the spring, 
When the field-fair and the meadow lark 

Sit on the fence and sing? 
When the tar weed shows the color 

Of the gold beneath the soil, 
Waiting to yield up its treasure 

To the sturdy farmer's toil ? 

Did you ever hear the shining steel 
Go whispering through the ground 

As it turned the summer fallow 
With a rich and mellow sound ? 

Did you ever see the wheat fields 

Shining in the summer sun, 
Like quivering burnished lakes of gold, 

Ere the harvest had begun? 
Then when moiling clattering reapers 

Sailing 'round these lakes of gold 
Gathered from their crested wavelets 

Into store a wealth untold? 

If you never saw the wheat fields 
Painted with the brush of spring, 

Nor the gilding of the summer. 
Nor the harvest reaper's ring, 



53 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

You have failed to see God's bounty 

In an aspect fair and grand, 
As e'er beheld by mortal eye 

In any clime or land ; 
And a journey to the wheat fields 

Will in pleasure full repay, 
If you wander where they glimmer 

On some fair and favored day. 
lone, Oregon. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. r>7 



WHATSOEVER. 

Phil. 4:8. 

Whatsoever things are true, 

Whatsoever things are just, 
Whatsoever honorable — 

Are the things we have in trust. 
WTiatsoever things are pure. 

Whatsoever lovely are, 
Things that are of good report, 

Be they near or be they far : 
Virtue, praise and such as they, 

Our attention should employ. 
Peaceful we may think on these, 

Without rancor's sad alloy. 



58 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



MICHAL. 

A meadow without a flower, 

A grove without a bird, 

A lake without a sail, 

A river without water, 

A desert, 

A salty sea, 

A Hebrew wife whose breasts 

Have not been pressed 

By infant lips. 

For but one little laugh 
This bitter cup must quaff, 
So Michal mourns with thee, 
Oh, Jephtha's daughter! 

Oh, had I wept instead of laughed 

That day the ark came in 

I had not paid this penalty 

For flippant sin. 

But now. Oh, Jephtha's daughter, 

Your fate was heaven, but mine — 

A childless virgin you — 

Israel's daughters mourned with thee, 

But I, a childless wife — 

Woe, woe is me. 

None pity, none bewail 



THE SUNSET SHORE. D9 

That Michal's hope is gone, 
And no Deliverer may come 
From her in future days 
(Jehovah said it) 
To call her memory blessed. 
Her breast may never throb 
By infant hands caressed, 
And Michal mourns alone. 




60 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



GLAD. 

"Corook, coroo!" said Mr. Frog, 
"I'm glad I'm not a pollywog ; 
I couldn't be content, I know. 
To stay down in the water so. 

"Caw!" said the crow, "but this is iifle- 
On this fat frog I'll surely dine." 
He carried Mr. Frog away. 
For dinner in his nest that day. 

"Kereep, keree!" said Pollywog, 
"I'm very glad I'm not a frog; 
I'm sure I'd dizzy-headed be. 
If I should fly as high as he." 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 61 



THE PROFESSOR OF LABOR. 

The professor of labor he labors, 

But not with hoe, hammer or saw ; 
In winter and summer and autumn and spring 

He toils with his flexible jaw. 

Sometimes in a temple of labor, 

Sometimes on a box in the street, 
This professor gives out dissertations 

On logs, locomotives or wheat. 

From Boston to Frisco and Baltimore back 

To Seattle and Puget Sound, 
He shouts for his caste on the quivering blast 

And bellows and paws up the ground. 

He's afraid the producer will suffer — 

His product is mostly hot air. 
But his dupes with their vanity tickled 

Their substance with him gladly share. 

The professor of labor he labors. 

And waxes e'er fat at his toil. 
While the cords of his throat grow athletic, 

But his hands never damaged with soil. 



62 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

He cultivates class with soundings of brass, 

And chatters of grievances sore. 
He heralds beliefs and weeps over griefs 

Which men never thought of before. 

So we'll give him a place with the suffering race, 

His penchant for talk patronize, 
Till the gas he contains expands in his brains 

And bears him away to the skies. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 55 



WATER. 



What art thou, 

Thou limpid something 

That cools men's lips — 

That makes the earth a bower 

Where grew no flower? 

* * * 

THE DEW. 

A quiet moment and a sympathetic thought, 

The swelling bosom and deep emotions start — 
At dawn the trees, the grass, the sparkling flowers, 

Show silent tears from out earth's mother heart. 

* *- * 

THE SPRING. 

Glancing at me and the trembling deer, 

Nature's blue eye, the little spring. 
Among the rocks, and moss and ferns. 

Where the pheasants drum and the robins sing. 

* * * 

THE WELL. 

From Nature's breast, by her children pressed 

Deep from the depths below, 
A liquid stream of life wells up. 

With its cool, refreshing flow. 

* * *- 

THE RAIN. 

From a bending sky, from a hand on high 
The rain drops grateful fall. 



64 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

And the green earth thanks from fields and banks 
For the rich supply for all. 

* * * 

THE LAKE. 

The highland lake in a dreamy vale — 

Born of the mountain snow; 
Waiting to slake with a cooling stream 

The thirsty earth below. 

THE RIVER. 

The streamlet feeds the river, 

The river feeds the earth, 
And forest, field and meadow 

Clap their hands in joyful mirth. 

» * « 

THE OCEAN. 

A sea of tears from eternal years — 

The throbbing ocean wide ; 
And the yearning love of our Father above 

Is as constant as its tide. 

* -* * 

The gentle dew, 

The cooling rain. 

The crystal spring, 

The flowing well, 

The mountain lake, 

The winding stream, 

The ocean — 

All, all are tears 

Upon an Omnipotent face. 

Shed for a wayward, fallen race — 

In pity: 

Springing from the soul of God. 







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MILL CREEK FALLS, ROGUE RIVER, OREGON. 




ROGUJE RIVER IN THE COAST MOUNTAINS. 




THE HEART OF PORTEAND 




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THE SUNSET SHORE. 65 



A SCANDAL. 

It is a shame, and I declare! that Sam'l doesn't know 
That Mary Jane, he thinks so nice, should talk about him 

so. 
He all the while as innocent as any suckin' pig; 
It is a pity Sam'l ain't as smart as he is big. 

Still Samuel is mighty good and someone ought to tell 
How Mary Jane's a treatin' him, but no one ever will. 
Why, don't you know? Why, I thought j^ou and ever}'^' 

body did; 
It comes right from her mother, and must be what !?he 

said. 

She said, last Sunday night, they say — he saw her home 

from meet'n — 
That he's the only man in town that she would wipe her 

feet on. 
It is a scandal now I say is what I think of that. 
To think that Mary Jane would use Sam Briggs for a 

door mat. 



86 THE SUNSET SHORK 



INCONSISTENCY. 

The man who wants to preach worst way 

He cannot preach at all, 
And the man who doesn't want to preach 

Could talk from spring till fall. 

The man who fain would practice law, 

And so uplift his race; 
He inks the edges of his coat 

And never gets a case. 

The man who wants to doctor folks 

Can't cure a single thing; 
The one who doesn't care for drugs 

Can make you laugh and sing. 

The man who wants to do in oil 

Great pictures rich and rare, 
He has to label all his work 

So we'll know what they are. 

The man who wants to write a book 

A story cannot tell; 
The one who doesn't care to write 

Can interest you well. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 67 

The man who would a statesman be, 

And may be president, 
Can't make a speech to save his life, 

Nor reason worth a cent. 

The preacher wants to till the soil, 

The farmer wants to preach ; 
The teacher wants to shove the plane, 

The carpenter to teach; 
The tailor wants to practice law, 

The lawyer slide the goose ; 
The engineer to make the laws, 

The cobbler print the news. 
And so the world goes struggling on, 

Ambition ruling all ; 
Success coming alone to those 

Who listen to their call. 




88 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

PARADISE. 

Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, 
When shall I rest my weary eyes ? 
On thy green fields and glowing skies 
Where pain nor no temptation tries — 
Oh, Paradise, sweet Paradise. 

Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, 
Oh, that my weary feet might rise 
From dusty pathways here below, 
To where thy gentle breezes blow — 
Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise. 

Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, 
In His good time we'll see thy skies — 
We'll wander in thy fields above, 
Where all is peace and joy and love — 
Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise. 

Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise, 
I'll wait until my Savior cries 
Enough, enough, come unto me! 
Then all thy beauties I shall see — 
Oh, Paradise! sweet Paradise. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 69 



HUMAN CHARACTER. 

More wondrous than the snowflake, 
More beauteous than the rose, 

More hateful than the serpent 
Whose track no mortal knows. 

More varied than the rainbow, 

Or e'en the flowers in spring, 
The chords that vibrate there more strange 

Than all the songs we sing. 

Writ in a language mj^stical, 

No human can define, 
The book is only legible 

Unto a mind divine. 



70 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

"THE RIVER RUNS."* 

"The river runs!" Its hungry bed 
From mountain reservoirs is fed ; 
Its banks now smile at morning suns — 
The river runs, the river runs! 

Sunshine is fair when fields are green 

And waving in the summer sheen. 

The sun a tyrant sits on high 

When heaven and earth are parched and dry, 

And weary earth in languor lies 

Beneath the glare of brazen skies, 

And fetid breath of burning years 

Has dried away her pent-up tears. 



*In April, 1903, the writer was in San Jacinto, Cali- 
fornia, 120 miles southeast of Los Angeles. Passing along 
the street one day he heard a boy, perhaps eight years of 
age, shout to his fellow across the street: "The river 
runs!" It seemed a strange proclamation to me then, 
but when I understood that for six long years no moist- 
ening flow had darkened the glaring white sands of the 
river bed, and that that boy had probably never before 
seen the stream flow, I appreciated his youthful enthusi- 
asm. I think Jehovah has put water in the San Jacinto 
river bed every spring since then, to the grateful joy of 
the people along its banks. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 71 

But now the grateful mountains pour 
Life from their swelling bosoms' store, 
Which, taken by the jo3'ful sands, 
Is sprinkled on the thirsty lands. 

The river runs ! The river runs ! 
Sing father, mother, little ones! 
Wave banners, fire the joyful guns! 
The river runs ! The river runs ! 




72 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



LOVE. 

I. Cor. 13:1-8, 13 and 14:1. 
Though I may speak with tongues of men 

And angels' heavenly voice, 
Without Love I'm as sounding brass, 

And no one vi^ill rejoice. 

Though I may have the gift of speech — 
My faith could mountains move ; 

KnoM^ledge and mysteries understand, 
I'm nothing w^ithout Love. 

Though I should give to feed the poor 

All things which I possess. 
My body give to burn with fire, 

Without Love M^ould not bless. 

Love suiters long, is very kind. 

And envies not at all ; 
Boasts not, is not exalted, 

And so can never fall. 

Love never acts unseemingly. 
Her own rights seeketh not; 

Is never angered easily. 
Nor harbors evil thought. 



THE SUNSET SHORE 73 

Love can't rejoice in tempers 

Or other evil things ; 
Of Truth enthroned within herself 

Love ever, always sings. 
Bears all things with a smiling face, 

Believeth all things pure ; 
Hopes all things, endures all things, 

And knows the future sure. 

Love never fails, but prophesies 

May sometimes come to naught ; 
And tongues shall cease, knowledge be lost, 

Though ever earnest sought. 

Faith is a grace which shall abide, 

Hope ever calls to see. 
But Love, the greatest of them all, 

Savs, "follov/ after me." 



74 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



RESCUED. 

How safe we are in Father's care, but, oh, how terrified 
While we are wandering away upon the mountain side. 

Gaily we seek earth's pleasure fair until the day is past, 
Groping among the caves and pits by night we go at last. 

The wolves of sin await our steps, all ready to devonr, 
And nothing now can save his child but Father's mighty 
power. 

Vainly we seek to extricate ourselves from Satan's snare, 
Only to weep with bitter cry while thorns and briars 
tear. 

At last all fainting sick and sore forgiveness we im- 
plore ; 

He stands beside us in the gloom, and we will stray 
no more. 

Oh, wanderer, when you abhor the paths of sin 
you try 

Your Father waits with longing heart to hear your 
weary cry ; 

And to his breast to gather you from out the bitter 
cold. 

And bear you safely in his arms back to the shelter- 
ing fold. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



IF A FELLOW DON'T GET SOUR. 

It's a joy to dream 
On a summer stream, 

And build in Spain a tower — 
To tumble down about our ears, 

If a fellow don't get sour. 

It's a joy to work 
And never shirk, 

Though storms around us lower 
If we do our best and leave the rest, 

And a fellow don't get sour. 

It's a joy to live 
And love and give. 

Through sunshine and through shower, 
No matter what our earthly lot, 

If a fellow don't get sour. 

It's a joy to wear 
A coat threadbare, 

And toil for meat ond flour, 
And spend our life for others' sake, 

If a fellow don't get sour. 



7fi 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



It's a joj7 to lay 
Our cares away, 

And meet death's final hour ; 
And we'll never fail in the shadowed vale, 

If a fellow don't get sour. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 77 



WAITING. 

Waiting at the window of the postoffice 

For the clerk to shake his head, not only once or twice; 

Waiting, waiting, weighting down my heart. 
Waiting, waiting while my joys depart. 

Waiting, waiting, weighting down my feet, 

While I weary drag aound up and down the street. 

Waiting, waiting, will it never end ? 

Will the letter never come on which my hopes depend? 

Waiting, waiting, weary with the weight 
Placed upon my worried soul by the letter late. 

Waiting, waiting, word we all can rue. 

Hardest thing in all the world that mortal has to do. 



7S THE SUNSET SHORE. 



TOOTLES. 

Our Tootles he is three years old, 

And trying now to talk, 
And he is every inch a boy 

Since he began to walk. 

When his big brothers go to school. 

And we have missed their noise, 
Then Tootles goes about the yard 

And calls: "boys! boys! boys! boys!" 
For Tootles he is lonesome 

When his brothers are away; 
He finds it hard to stay alone 

Throughout the long, long day. 

But Tootles, he is happy 

When the boys come home again. 
For he can tumble on the grass 

With Dick and brother Ben, 
And he can cut his finger 

With his brother's pocket knife, 
And have a rag tied on it. 

And feel as large as life. 
He can ride in Bennie's wagon. 

And get tipped over, too, 
And knock enough skin off his head 




TOOTLES. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 79 

To make a baby's shoe; 
And he can carry in his mouth 

For bits a wooden stick, 
And trot around the yard an hour, 

A horse for brother Dick. 
Can pack a tub of water 

To irrigate some land 
The boys have been improving 

Out in a bed of sand. 
And then when everything's all wet 

Can make the finest pie 
Of mud you'd ever care to see 

And set it by to dry. 

Our Tootles, he will be a horse, 

A dog, or cow, or sheep; 
He'll whinny, bawl and bleat and crow, 

He'll walk and run and creep. 
He'll be police or jail bird, 

He doesn't care much which. 
For when the boys come home from school 

He never makes a hitch. 

Sometimes our Tootles growls most fierce. 

Just like a mighty bear; 
The way he grits his teeth and snarls 

Would anybody scare, 
But when the hunters come along 



so THE SUNSET SHORE. 

And shoot him with a stick 
He tumbles on the ground and lies 
Till skinned by Ben or Dick. 

Our Tootles hates to waste the time 

It takes to eat or sleep. 
When mamma says, "it's bedtime now!" 

It's sure to make him weep ; 
But when his muddy dress is off, 

His shoes are set away, 
The tears are washed from off his face 

And he's in bed to stay, 
You'd never think to look at him 

He was a horse or cow. 
But say, while looking at his curls, 

"He is an angel now." 
lone, Oregon, 1905. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 



A PAPER DOLLIE. 

To My Daughter Rachel. 
I found it in my pocket, 

As I walked along the road ; 
Sore depressed by many burdens, 

Crushed beneath my heavy load. 

It was but piece of paper, 

Crumpled up, and soiled a bit; 

And an angel whispered to me: 
Smooth the wrinkles out of it. 

Then I careful bent the corners 

Down upon my open palm, 
Till the whole was spread before me, 

An illustrated Psalm. 

And it taught me, as I traveled. 
Deeply burdened on my way — 

"Forget self and think of others," 
Thus you'll brighten every day. 

Listen, you shall hear the story 
How my heart the lesson read, 

While I wandered 'raid the forest 
Kending solemn o'er my head. 



82 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

As I kissed my little daughter, 

Just before I came away, 
She clung to me for a moment. 

As though asking me to stay. 

Then she pressed into my fingers 

A tiny paper doll, 
Saying "Take it with you, papa. 

Just to any place at all." 

'Til need explanations," said I. 

"I don't understand at all; 
I've too many little children 

To need a paper doll." 

To the rescue came her mother: 
"Take the dollie, now," she said, 

"And lose it where you find it; 
It will make some children glad." 

So I tucked the paper dollie 

In my pocket safe away. 
Then forgot the admonition. 

Given early in the day. 

But I've found her now, while wandering 
In the forest deep and still. 

And I'll drop her in the pathway, 
Where the children come from school. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



83 



Thus my little daughter taught me — 

"Shed your light on others' way; 
And while lightening others' burdens, 
You will find a brighter day." 
Blaine, Washington, 1895. 




84 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



HER SOUL. 

What's this comes floating along the hill, 
Like a snowy thistle down soft and still? 
A woman's soul, so pure and clean. 
In a maiden fair at sweet sixteen. 

A breath may blow this tender thing 
To a pit as black as a raven's wing. 
To a place of snakes and owls and bats- 
Of growling dogs and snarling cats. 
Of hideous things I dare not tell, 
A grave, a prison, a den, a hell. 

A breath may blow this treasure rare 
To a beautiful place in the valley there- 
A land of birds and bees and flowers. 
Of golden fields and blooming bowers, 
Where everything is pure and nice — 
A heaven, a home, a Paradise. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 85 

GIVE ALMS. 

Luke 11:4L 

"Give alms of such things as you have," 
From out the bag w^hich grows not old ; 

It may not be of jev^^els rare, 
Or plethora of hoarded gold. 

A cup of water, word of love, 

Provided from your grateful store, 
May precious be as gifts of wealth 

And fleshly jo3^s, yea! even more. 

The Spirit's presence comforting 

Has filled your soul with joy and peace; 

Pour out to others of your store, 
Eternal joys will then increase. 

Give alms of such things as you have, 
Fresh from the treasure house above ; 

Each morning new manna will fall, 
Of peace and joy and heavenly love. 

Give alms of such things as you have. 
Nor wait for earthly treasure rare ; 

To hungry souls pour out your gifts — 
With them your heavenly comforts share. 



86 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE FAITHFUL WATCHER. 

An infant in my cradle bed. 

Sweet blessings falling round my head- 

A heavenly vigil o'er me kept, 

For "mamma watched while I slept." 

The glamour of my boyhood days 
Made paths in many wayward ways, 
And though for me she often wept, 
Still mamma watched while I slept. 

A youth, I treasured shams and snares, 
And heeded not ascending prayers, 
And home at midnight softly crept, 
But mother watched while I slept. 

Bless'd God, the Holy Spirit, spoke. 
And I, at last a man, awoke. 
Her prayers for me their harvest rept. 
For she had watched while I slept. 
San Jacinto, Cal. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 87 



FOR MERCY'S SAKE. 

We fought for preservation once, 

For bold aggression, too. 
And once we fought for liberty. 

But now we fight for you; 
For starving thousands pleading loud, 

Of men and little ones. 
And for the gallant boys in blue 

Who sank beside their guns. 

A nation who despises you, 

And swims in seas of blood, 
We'll punish for a thousand crimes 

Against the true and good. 
We'll strike for the Virginius 

A blow with vim and might. 
Nor blush though blood should freely flow, 

To fight for you and right. 

Then let the starry banner wave 

O'er Cuba's palm-fringed hills, 
Where patriot blood has freely stained 

A hundred mountain rills ; 
And hoist it high with loud hurrah 

Above the somber walls, 
WTiich shadows o'er the bloody stain 

Which to our manhood calls. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Then let the page of history 

In future ages tell 
How we for Mercy fought this fight, 

And how our comrades fell, 
With faces toward the flag they loved 

And hearts with pity filled 
For bleeding Cuba, whose sad cry 

With fire our nation thrilled. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 89 



SIX YEARS OLD. 

Would you think I was six years old? 

I was five last February; 
Now mamma says that I am six — 

Almost as old as Mary. 

I used to be a little thing a long, long time ago; 

I couldn't read a single mite; 
But now, since I've got big, 

I spell a lot of words and sometimes try to write. 

And by and by, when I grow up, 

If I teach school or not, 
If I should study hard and pass, 
I'll know an awful lot. 
lone, Oregon, Feb. 19, 1905. 



90 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE OCEAN MAID. 

Close down by the shore, where the breakers roar 

All through the livelong day, 
Where the sun sets in the ocean, 

I met sweet Rosie Bray. 
Beside a wandering mountain stream, 

As the gleams of twilight fade. 
Where the dreaming river falls in the sea, 

I saw this ocean maid. 

Sweet Rosie Bray is a child of clay, 
And not a mermaid strange; 

And she loves the sea and the air so free, 
Where the skimming sea birds range, 

And the blue sky gleams in her blue, blue eye- 
May her beauty never fade — 

As the sea shall never cease its song — 
This comely ocean maid. 

They took her away one summer day, 

To the turmoil of the street, 
Where she wandered about the noisy town, 

With worried weary feet. 
With a lonely heart she sought the couch. 

Where her weary head she laid, 
Her pillow to wet with her falling tears — 

This homesick ocean maid. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 91 

Another day in the city gay, 

With its sights and sounds and strife, 
With food untouched and sleepless couch — 

To her a weary life. 
Sweet Rosie longed with a longing deep 

For the sands where she had played, 
And so she plead to be taken home — 

This lonely ocean maid. 

"God made the rocks, and made the sea. 

And made the bird that sings; 
He made the winds, and waves and sky. 

But he never made these things. 
So take me back where the salt sea sighs, 

And the snowy sprays dash high, 
Where the white sails gleam across the waves 

On the far-off western sky — 
Where the scampering sand bird flits away 

From the fingers of the deep, 
Which reach up high on the wet, wtt sands, 

With a constant seething sweep. 
Oh, take me back to the sea again, 

I cannot eat or sleep ; 
And when I think of the restless tide, 

My heart can only weep. 
Oh, give me back my ocean home, 

Let down my streaming braid. 
And let the salt sea sparkle there," 

Plead the sorrowing ocean maid. 



92 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



Svv'cet Rosie Bray is back at play, 

Where the sea with ceaseless song, 
In a bass, bass key booms wide and free 

Each grand new day along; 
And breathing in the salt sea breath, 

When the gleams of twilight fade 
She sleeps to the ocean's lullaby, 

This peaceful ocean maid. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 



WHERE'S MY NANNIE? 

Two clinging arms around m)^ neck, 

Long, long ago. 
A velvet cheek pressed warm against my face, 
A bab}'^ breath, sweet as an Eden sigh, 
A cooing, crooning note of baby joy, so confident 

Oh, where's my Nannie? 

The gloom falls round me while I dream. 
And look back up life's winding stream. 
Once more I hear the tottering little feet, 
And hear the cooing baby voice so sweet : 

"I love 'oo, papa!" 

Oh, where's my Nannie? 

The day is dead, and time has flown. 
And I sit here by the fire alone. 
In the quiet gloom of my little room. 
Oh, where's my Nannie? 

I'm waiting here by the mystic shore. 
And the little hands they come no more 
To linger now. 
Soft on my brow. 
Oh, where's my Nannie? 
Bellingham, Washington. 



94 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



DOWN THE HILL. 

The sky was bright that morning 
When we started up the hill, 

Now the longest path's behind us, 
Yet I find some brightness still. 

Sometimes I pulled you backward 
As we traveled up the way; 

Still I'm resting in the shadows 
On the other side today. 

There's a peaceful little valley 

At the bottom of the hill. 
Where the winds are always quiet, 

Birds and brook are never still ; 
Where the lake smiles in the sunlight, 

Mirror for the hill and tree; 
Shall we travel down together. 

Will you rest there, love, with me ? 



THE SUNSET SHORE. . 95 

THE FUNNY LITTLE CHAMBER MAN. 

Oh, that funny little chamber man, 

He goes about with his broom and pan ; 

With dusting pan and pail and broom 

He patters in to sweep my room, 

And when he's scratched all over the floor 

There's more dirt there than there was before. 

Oh, that little man with the pigtail rare, 

Part of string and part of hair. 

He's as innocent as a young spring lamb. 
And his funny face is always calm ; 
He studies hard the whole day through 
To decide on the things that he won't do. 
And when at his neglect j'ou're wild 
He smiles upon j^ou like a child — 
That little man with the pigtail rare. 
Part of string and part of hair. 

If at his ways you dare complain 
Flits over his face a look of pain, 
And he says "no savy!" at your plaint 
In a way exasperating quaint. 
"No savy!" covers a host of sins 

For the little Ning Poos and little Lee Wings — 
The little men with the pigtails rare, 
Part of string and part of hair. 
Victoria, B. C. 



96 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



SPRING. 

He'd be a stock or stone, or coarser ground 
Who wouldn't sing of spring on Puget Sound. 
If grasping, sordid man should silent be 
A song would burst from every hill and tree. 

Spring offers days too bright for mortal man, 
Ethereal days, which smile but once, and then 
The heavens weep because they pass away — 
Too perfect with the common earth to stay. 

The downy mists cling round the mountain tops, 
The glowing sun, while stealing upward stops 
And paints a blush of spring upon the snows 
Before his power upon the earth he shows. 

The very blood leaps through the veins in glee 
As leaps the life into the shrub and tree 
Upon the amorous touch of witching spring, 
Who makes the hills to blossom and to sing. 

The passing steamer leaves a veil of black 
Above the blue Sound o'er its bubbly track. 
The lark calls shrilly from the towering fii , 
And tells his mate he'll cross the mead to her. 




THE RIVER AT HOME. 




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THE SUNSET SHORE. 97 

The breezes blow afar from summer isles, 
The sun looks down upon the earth and smiles, 
The earth gives praise in all its verdant things, 
And while the breeze blows soft the forest sings. 

The bluebird whistles gaily from the fence, 

He and his mate their first spring tasks commence. 

The willows promise crops of cats to yield, 

The blushing osier glows across the field. 

The only perfect day's a day in spring 
On Puget Sound: The days of which I sing; 
And he's a stock or stone or coarser ground 
Who wouldn't sing of spring on Puget Sound. 




9S THE SUNSET SHORE. 



WHEN BABY RUNNED AWAY. 

When he took care of baby big brother said, "oh, dear!" 
And "what a nuisance!" sister said, whenever she came 

near. 
Nobody wanted baby to bother in their play. 
And everybody said "be still!" so baby runned away. 

The little wagon, lone and still, sat in the corner there; 
A little bonnet, soiled and worn, lay in the baby's chair. 
Her things were scattered all around, excepting Dolly 

May 
And Jupiter, the old house dog, when baby runned away. 

"Where's baby?" mamma whispered, and nobody could 

tell; 
She wasn't in the garden, the woodshed, or the well; 
No little feet were pattering about the place at play. 
And everything was quiet there when baby runned away. 

"She can't be far!" they all declared, "not five minutes 

ago 
She hung upon the table leaf and begged a piece of dough," 
But grandpa stopped his reading, the children ceased their 

play, 
And everybody joined the search when baby runned away. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 99 

At dinner time no baby, nobody cared to eat ; 
They longed to hear the patter of busy little feet. 
Then mamma sent the children, with lips and faces gray, 
To tell the kindly neighbors "our baby's runned away." 

The neighbors came and searched the fields, the meadows 

and the wood, 
And some of them began to say "the baby's lost for good !" 
The sun was sinking out of sight when mamma stopped 

to pray; 
To blame herself and weep and cry cause baby runned 

away. 

But listen now, a distant howl breaks on the evening air, 
The sound of a familiar voice, and not a wolf or bear. 
"Old Jupiter!" said mamma, "he's been away all day. 
He always tries to go along when baby runs away." 

They found her by her faithful friend, her dollie on her 

arm. 
Beside a lonely woodland path, asleep and safe from harm. 
Then mamma folded baby up and fainted quite away, 
Worn out with toil and worry, cause baby runned away. 

They put her in the wagon, the baby by her side, 

And when they started all declared old Jupiter should 

ride ; 
He watched so well the little one, and all the children say 
He was the hero of the hour, when baby runned away. 



100 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



We never tell the baby now "go way, don't make £ 

noise ! 
We never call her "nuisance" when she picks up our toys 
She has a lovely piece of dough on every baking day, 
For none of us can quite forget when baby runned away 
Hood River, Oregon. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 101 



NOT PROUD. 

(Written on the other end of the street car.) 
The buzzard said to the dove one day 
"You're proud if jou don't come out and play 
With me where everything smells so fine 
In this elegant rich play ground of mine." 

"Oh, no," said the dove, "I am not proud, 
But it smells too strong in your elegant crowd, 
I had rather rest where the air is free 
With the humming bird and the honey bee." 



102 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



WHERE IS THE WEST? 

Oh where is the West, the dream-fraught West 

Which we knew so long ago, 
With its luring spells, its promise grand 

And its soul-inthralling glow? 

When the striving throng becomes too dense 

And we are sore oppressed, 
Oh where, oh where can we find relief 

In the air of a free, wide west? 

Oh where is the west of which we dreamed 

With its prairies rich and wide. 
Its fields all rife awaiting the flow 

Of the restless human tide? 

In vain in vain in our dreams we seek 

For a free and boundless west. 
The din and moil of the striving world 

Has all its realms possessed. 

The clang of trade and the greed of gain 

Have defiled its virgin breast. 
And we look no more to the setting sun 

For a place where our souls ma}' rest. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 103 

Oh, the west has gone to seek the dawn 

Of eternal dim beyond, 
And on the sea of its mystery 

We've embarked our fancies fond. 

Oh where, oh where can our fancy fly 

For its unknown land of bliss. 
Where we can rest, our toil requite 

When we are tired of this? 

It is no more, this land of dreams 

For which our spirit cries, 
The only place for the weary soul 

Is away in Paradise. 

Oh sigh not then for the dreamful west, 

For its witching charms are flown. 
But look away to the realms of day, 

And claim them for your own. 




104 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



SWEET SADNESS. 

There is sweetness in the sadness 

That sorrows for the home, 
Where mother waits and watches 

For the boy who still will roam. 

There is sweetness in the sadness 

Which sorrows for the deed 
Which has wronged some trusting neighbor, 

Made his aching heart to bleed. 

There is sweetness in the sadness 

Which sorrows for the smiles 
Which were ours e'er Satan entered 

Our Eden with his wiles. 

There is sweetness in the sadness 

Which sorrows for the glee 
Which the children used to utter 

As they gladly welcomed me. 

There is sweetness in the sadness 

Which makes us pitiful. 
And will lead us to the lonely 

In a teeming city full. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 105 

There is sweetness in the sadness 

Which makes us to repent 
That our lives have been unworthy 

Of the Savior God has sent. 

And there's sweetness in the sadness 
Which our stubborn wills shall bend 

And fit us for the haven 
He's prepared us at the end. 

There is sweetness in the sunlight 

There is sweetness in the air 
Winter, summer, spring and autumn 

There is sweetness everywhere. 




106 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE WAY UP. 

I will obey when Father calls 
Then I can lay what e'er befalls 
On Him, who knows the darkest way, 
And trust Him even though He slay. 
And trust Him ever, for I know 
All things are working here below 
For my eternal good, for I 
Am called His holy purpose by, 
And love Him, for I surely know 
He guides me everywhere I go; 
And cares for me in joy or pain — 
Permits me to His rest attain. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 107 



A PICTURE. 

If human weakness mar you, love, 
My eyes have deeper seen; 

I love you, not for what you are. 
But what you should have been. 

My fancy painted long ago, 

A picture rare to see. 
No present fate can serve to hide 

That picture fair from me. 

I see in you that portrait true 
In mind and form and face, 

And nothing, though beguiling hung 
Can fill its biding place. 

A treasure, it belongs to me, 
No hand can rob my heart; 

Conceived within my youthful life 
It now of me is part. 

This picture by youth's fancy drawn 
Must fill its niche for aj^e ; 

Without a change within my heart 
It surely hangs today. 



108 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE WORLD. 

By the Columbia river it is bounded on the north, 
And by the Cascade mountains on the east, 

The Calapooia mountains skirt the southern boundary. 
And the Coast range marks the west, to say the least. 

The longest river in the world's the winding Willamette ; 

The capital is Salem on that stream; 
The highest mountain in the world, they tell me, is Mt. 
Hood, 

And that, without a doubt's no fairy dream. 



.V ) 



The largest city in the world is Portland, so they sa\ 

There couldn't be a larger very well. 
The greatest paper in the world's the Oregonian, 

And that's a fact which I am proud to tell. 

From Portland to Eugene, from Molalla to Yamhill 
This world it is so mighty big and wide, 

If there's any more to tell about I couldn't tell it all. 
It would take another little world beside. 

Portland, 1902. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 109 



THE GREATEST CITY. 

Seattle is the greatest town in all this world, I guess, 
For if there is a greater I've not seen it, I confess. 
From First to Second Avenue, from Jackson Street to 

Pike 
Of all the crowds you ever saw you never saw the like. 

We have the tallest buildings, nine stories in the air, 
If they built them any higher they'd go over, I declare! 
The biggest steamships in the world from China and 

Japan 
Tied up along the water front, just beat them if you can. 

From Ballard down to Renton — they're in the town you 

bet. 
And by and by, they tell me, we'll take in Everett. 
Tacoma will a suburb be — we'll let them keep the name, 
But it will only be a part of Seattle all the same. 

And when we build the big canal, and all the ships 

come in 
To clean their bottoms in the lake as slick as any pin, 
Then Portland and Tacoma will both like Sunday be, 
And people from all round the world will just come here 

to see. 



110 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Seattle has a "spirit," "the only one," says ma, 
From Yakima to Neah Bay, from Blaine to Willipa, 
Sometimes we have two spirits, if there's necessity, 
And if things grew too strenuous we might have even 
three. 

We're going to outgrow Frisco, Los Angeles doesn't 

count ; 
Seattle will be champion for any old amount. 
And all the railroads and the ships will try to enter here, 
If we don't beat those other towns it surely will be queer. 

There's just one place where I would like to make my 

home and die, 
And that is in Seattle, and that's no blooming lie. 
Of all the towns in all the world Seattle is the best, 
You cannot find a better if you travel east or west. 
Seattle, 1902. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. Ill 



CHANGES OF WEATHER. 

Rebecca's like the weather; 

Sunshine has come today, 
And with a brand new jacket 

Has chased the clouds away. 

Tomorrow will be cloudy, 

And rainy too, I fear. 
For our Rebecca wants a hat — 

The second one this year. 
And when she cannot have it 

There's sure to be a shower, 
And in the sky the whole day long 

The sombre clouds will lower. 

The picnic day is windy — 

Rebecca flies along 
From morning until evening. 

With laughter and with song. 
The day at home is gloomy, 

Rebecca's face is sad, 
But when she has her wishes 

Her eyes are bright and glad. 

But by and by Rebecca 

Will have her heart made new, 



112 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Then peace will come into her life 
Like gently falling dew; 

No matter how the winds may blow 
And clouds the sun may hide, 

The day will bright and pleasant be, 
And joy will dwell inside. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 113 



ACROSS THE LAKE. 

Across the lake, blue floating up, 

I see my neighbor's friendly smoke ascend, 
Then, though alone, I work and sing 

For over there I know I have a friend. 

Across the lake today there is no sign. 

My neighbor gone, no friendly smoke ascends. 
I gaze beyond the sapphire depths — the lonely tear 

Flows as its tender chalice rends. 

I think, as to my tasks I slowly turn, 
As one by one my friendly neighbors go: 

My hopes will soon be all of life 

Across the dusky river's ceaseless flow. 



114 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE HARP OF THE SANDS. 

The following stanzas were inspired by that strange 
moaning sound which one sometimes hears along the sea 
shore about dusk. Twice at Victoria, British Columbia — 
once on the Beacon Hill water front and once on Victoria 
Arm — the writer heard this weird sound, more like the 
ringing of a telegraph wire in the wind than anything 
else, but softer and not so loud. He is also informed that 
the sound is often heard at the Golden Gate, San Fran- 
cisco, and other places along the ocean front. 

I sat one night where the flowing tide 

Came in at the Golden Gate, 
And listened to the restless sea. 

Though the hour was growing late. 

The earth was still and the ocean calm 

The air was soft and lov/, 
And the only thing that made a sound 

Was the creeping waters' flow. 

A ship passed in the dusk along, 

Like a phantom up the bay. 
Its tall masts mirrored in the deep, 

While it slipped in the gloom away. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 115 

The sea birds chattered as they flew 

In whispering notes of night, 
Or sat on the bosom of the deep 

When the moon came into sight. 

The porpoise flashing in and out 

Far off on the distant sea, 
With all the other ocean sights. 

Make an evening show for me. 

And so I sat and listened to 

The ocean's mighty swells — 
The story which the sea's unrest 

Forever throbbing tells. 

And then I walked in the soft moonlight, 

And listened to the tide, 
As it glided through the Golden Gate 

From the ocean green and wide. 

At last I stopped and held my breath. 

For a strain of music came, 
Like the wind through strings Aeolian, 

Too sweet to have a name. 

And sad and low it floated up 
From the ocean-dampened sands. 

Like a harp thrust out from the hurrying deep 
And played by spirit hands. 



116 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

I Stood and listened to the strains, 

I had one time heard before — 
To the harp of the sands played by unseen hands 

In the rocks along the shore. 

The hour was right, for alone at night 
Will the sand harps ever play; 

When the flowing tide begins to glide 
Into the shadowy bay. 

I listened wrapt to the sad sweet strain. 
For I knew when the tide was in 

No more would the sand harp play for me 
By the fingers soft unseen. 

Nor could I hear in the daylight glare 

This music of the night, 
For the glowing sun would, soaring high, 

Give the weird musicians fright. 

So I drank my fill till the music ceased, 
And I knew I should hear no more. 

Then back to the city I took my way 
Along the rock bound shore. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 117 



THE NEW HOUSE. 

L. Samuel once showed the writer eight new residences 
in the city of Portland, Oregon, where either the husband 
or wife (old pioneers who had breasted the toils of early 
days together) as soon as they moved into the elegant 
new quarters, died. The same thing happened to a friend 
of the writer's in Whatcom, after which he penned the 
following lines : 

I hate you and all 3^our polished walls 

And massive doors of precious woods. 

There is only one redeeming feature in you 

With all your glittering, glaring elegance. 

And that a whispering, longing thought of her 

For whom I dreamed to raise your massive domes. 

The funeral silence of your mossy carpets 

Make my heart as chill as your cold stones ; 

As sad I wander up and down your halls alone ; 

For she is gone, and earth, and you, and I are empty. 

I brought her yonder where the elm tree droops. 

She planted with her own dear hands. 

So long ago ; and roses bloomed on face and field ; 

And sunshine shone in heaven and eye, 

And brightened everything with hope and joy. 



118 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

The mossy cabin she delighted in, 
The forest shades of green and gray beyond, 
Even the toil of clearing off the massive trees 
Was entertaining, and to her had its delight. 
Her dimpled hands and face were often painted 
With the char of sticks she piled upon 
The glowing fires Vv'hich ate the shade avvay 
And let the hoe and sunlight to the willing soil. 

The busy years flew by, the "old house" stood 

Where once the cabin's mossy logs were piled ; 

Her elm tree shaded round the porch. 

And children played and sang about the place, 

Still she was e'er the faithful guardian, 

And when the calls of business took me far away, 

She bore the burden of the home alone. 

And life more full of toil and cares 

Than what the world calls pleasures, 

She lived, through all the years, with few complaints. 

Her girlhood feet had pressed the velvet, 

And frescoed walls had looked upon her then, 

But now the garden soil clung to her dainty shoes — 

Her little hands were not as soft as when 

They handled only needle work or lace. 

Necessity, that thorough but relentless teacher. 

Drew his impassible lines around her home 

And made a world of it, at least for her. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 119 

The moments passed, and while I dreamed 
The hand of time sprinkled the frosts of years 
Upon my head, and to my joints poured in 
The curdled oil of age with stealthy hand. 
Deceiving me, he kept her just as fair. 
Nor meddled with her velvet face or hair. 
The only sign she gave that toil or time or care 
Had touched her, was now and then a sigh. 

Frowning adversity had meek submission taught; 

And then upon us smiled one day prosperity 

The old house 'neath the elm tree's spreading shade 

(When I upon our new good fortune thought) 

Seemed mean and poor and cramped. 

And then I thought to rear a home for her 

More like the one she left to come to me. 

She said when I the subject broached to her: 

"We have been happy here, the place is dear 

"And here the children have around us grown 

"To men and women and gone out 

"The world to see, and this to them is home." 

But still I thought I did it all for her, 

And so your towers and pillars grew, 

And you, new house, were thus completed. 

The upholsterer and cabinet maker came, 

And artists hung your frescoed walls 

With bits of silent nature, face and form. 

We walked about your halls and stairways 



120 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Like children lost in some strange wilderness, 

Until one day she tired grew and pale 

And lay her down to rest, but not in thee, new house. 

For with a weary smile she asked me 

To carry her to her own little room, 

Where in the elm tree she could hear the robin sing. 

We bore her gently home across the field 

And left you here, a monument to pride. 

"Oh, I am tired, and just want to rest," 

She said, when we, with sadly bending heads 

Inquired what we could do for her. 

And so she went to sleep in her own little room 

To never more behold the marble halls 

I built for her when she had worn her life away. 

And when I knew that we could never wake her 

It came to me how void of recreations 

And how circumscribed her life had been. 

And then a thought of bittterness came in; 

That she had never been rewarded for her cares, 

And had been snatched away from tardy joys, 

Which came too late to cheer the life 

Which she had spent for others' comforts. 

Defrauded all her life of cheering recreations, 
And filled her world with sacrifice and self-denials, 
I take no joy in you, new house; 
You make my days more lonely and bring up 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 121 

The thought of how she closed her weary life, 
Not with delights and comforts here, 
But with the silence of mysterious death. 

There are more pleasant places, and to others 

I will leave the task of waking up j-our corridors, 

While I repine beneath our spreading elm, 

(By which her youthful daj^s were bright) 

And meditate upon the promised glorious home. 

Built by more generous hands than you. 

And where she waits for me among the scenes 

Where mysteries are all revealed, and sacrifice 

Not unevenly distributed on gentle shoulders. 

Farewell, new house, I can't forsake old friends 

For you, and will not hate jou when 

Your walls are hidden from any sight. 

So, as I go to where she fell asleep, new house, good night. 




.122 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



FEEDING THE PIGS. 

Since Adam loved and disobeyed 

Upon that fatal day, 
And ate the sad, forbidden fruit, 

And hied himself away. 
Since he and his dear-purchased bride, 

Clothed with the leaves of figs. 
Went weeping from the garden sore, 

Man has been feeding pigs. 

The artist feeds them with his brush, 

They eat and gorge and die. 
The author feeds them with his pen, 

They chuckle, mourn and sigh. 
The singer feeds them with his songs. 

And they forget they're earth, 
And sleep and dream, oblivious — 

Neglect eternal birth. 
The actor feeds on mimicry 

Of things and beings real ; 
They hasten, jostling, to his trough, 

And crowd and tear and squeal. 

The chef feeds on substantial things. 

The jeweler on gold; 
The preacher suds of platitudes ; 

They feel that they are sold. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 

The lawyer, guileful, fills their trough 

With pleas of subterfuge. 
The statesman legislation serves 

In bags and bundles huge. 
The doctor feeds elastic cures 

To stretch their stomachs out ; 
They gorge then with impunity, 

Immersing feet and snout. 
The teacher, even, would enlarge 

Porcine capacity 
For the absorption of earth's store 

In their own special sty. 

And so the pigs strive, feed and sleep, 

While man leans on the fence 
And chews the husks, and ruminates, 

Nor heeds the recompense. 
But soon the Husbandman will come, 

With fodder from the sky, 
And change them into men again 

His bounty to enjoy. 
Then strife of self will cease to be, 

Man cater not to lust. 
His tables will be full of love, 

And praise and hope and trust. 
He'll step back into Paradise, 

And feed clean birds and beasts. 
And never more, with lust of eye. 

Will call the pigs to feasts. 



124 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



MOUNT RAINIER. 

The mighty mountain of the Sound 
Looked down upon the forest round ; 
Solemn and still a guard he stood, 
Between Columbia's might flood 
And Eraser's winding golden stream — 
The farmer's home, the miner's dream. 

His whitened locks blow in the wind. 
And with the blue of heaven blend. 
He stands with nothing round to hide — 
His tall fir bayonets beside — 
And calmly looks upon the world, 
(His only rival, flags unfurled) 
Who with the noisy, hoyden day 
Will sport the fleeting hours away. 

He stands mid mountain troop around, 
Supinely on them looking down, 
Goliath great among the host, 
Supreme he rules, nor needs to boast. 
For all can see with wondering eyes 
The silent mountain pierce the skies — 
Can see his pale and silent face. 
With frown look down on endless space 
As though in meditation deep, 
Or wrapt in dreams of daylight sleep. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 125 

His form so great that he must know 
To move would crush the world below; 
For though austere and boding harm, 
His heart within is throbbing warm. 
With silent care he broodeth o'er 
The sleeping world along the shore; 
He stands above with brow so white 
The sentinel of solemn night. 

With busy day he saw begin 
The toils of men and strife and din ; 
The cities of the winding Sound 
Among the forest scattered round ; 
With eager blush the gulling dawn, 
The world from silent slumber drawn. 

He saw the world with twilight part ; 
Their kisses seemed to touch his heart. 
Across his austere visage came 
A rosy blush, but not of shame, 
For well he knew the bitterness 
Which made their loving pleasures less, 
The sorrow which within them passed 
That their sweet meeting could not last; 
The somber night must separate 
The lovers e'er the hour grew late. 

And so we love our mountain grand, 
The noblest in all the land. 
Who towers beside the western sea. 
Where all the passing world may see; 
Who always at his post is found. 
The sentinel of Puget Sound. 



126 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



TRILLIUM. 

Wakerobin dressed in white and green 

Came out on Easter day, 
As fair a flower as e'er was seen 

By glade or woodland way. 
Her bonnet white spread out upon 

A robe of royal green, 
Her amber throat rich nestling 
The wax-like leaves between. 

We gather from among the moss 

This lovely Easter flower, 
Which turns the brown of early spring 

Into a fairy bower. 
She comes before the other blossoms 

Dare to face the blast, 
To welcome back the birds who sing 

While gaily flitting past. 

As spring grows old and roses bud 

And summer days draw nigh. 
She dons a purple bonnet. 

And spring bids us good-bye. 
But wakerobin we'll ne'er forget 

While welcoming newer flowers. 
For she it was, mid frosts of spring 

Made glad this world of ours. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 127 



JUST ON BEFORE. 

When ills crowd on us fast and sure — 
That human flesh can scarce endure, 
For present woes we see the cure — 
Just on before. 

Just on before the way is bright — 
Time promises for our delight, 
That everything shall be made right — 
Just on before. 

Just on before the fields are green — 
Sweet Hope makes short the way between 
Our vision and the wooing scene — 
Just on before. 

Just on before the skies are blue — 
No clouds o'ershade or tempests brew, 
Our dreams of happiness come true — 
Just on before. 

Just on before is wealth and ease — 
Mid blooming flowers and verdant trees, 
And everj^thing to cheer and please — 
Just on before. 



128 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



Just on before is always fair — 
Whatever sorrows now we share ; 
The future's filled with promise rare- 
Just on before. 

Just on before is Paradise, 
And to its shores my spirit flies — 
Its joys will cheer my weary eyes — 
Just on before. 




^ ■ -P.CLT-ciA-*>vv . 




NORTHWEST CORNER OF THE UNITED STATES. 




IN WOODLAND PARK, SEATTLE. 




SMULK BAT, PUGET SOUND. 







■le 






t.' 







-w- >i^ 






--^^m^- 






4^ 




MOONLIGHT IN SPOKANE. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 129 



WINTER. 



Winter is nothing — just a little more rain 

To give us a longing for sunshine again. 

The clouds hanging low over mountain and hill 

Onl)^ come to refresh and the hungry earth fill. 

No frost bitten ears or feet frozen sore, 
But just enough cold to delight in the roar 
Of the bark fire piled high in the chimney wide, 
While we sit in the glow the fireplace beside. 

The snows on the mountains, the clouds on the hills 
Which furnish supply for the rivers and rills; 
The evergreens darkened, the leaves blown away 
From the alder and maple and vine maple gay. 

The frosts of the mornings, the skies overcast, 
Chinooks blowing warm from the ocean their blast, 
The cellars and barns piled high with their store, 
Are the signs that 'tis winter on the evergreen shore. 



130 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE EVERGREEN SHORE. 

Oh, come, my daughter, come with me to the coasts of 

evergreen, 
Where the broad Pacific laves the shore, and the tall M^hite 

ships are seen; 
Where snow-capped mountains pierce the skies by the side 

of crystal lakes. 
And the wind among the balsam boughs celestial music 

makes ; 
Where gold and silver mountains ring with the miners' 

pick and spade. 
And the water fowl skims on the lake and the deer leaps 

in the glade. 

Oh, come where Puget Sound winds in among a thousand 

isles, 
"Where cots and villages nestling stand, and bounteous 

nature smiles. 
Where the tall fir trees make green the tide, as it ebbs 

among the hills. 
And mountain lakes pour out their floods in a hundred 

tumbling rills. 
Where cities fair with their hum and stir beside their 

busy bays. 
Send out their ships v/ith steam and sail in many ocean 

ways. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. . 131 

Oh, come to the fields of Washington, where grows the 

golden wheat. 
And where in the iron mountain's breast the coal rests 

'neath our feet ; 
And the sawmills hum and the canners come with their 

treasures of the deep. 
And the soft winds sing in the evergreens, lulling us to 

sleep. 

Oh, come where the sun bathes in the west when the day- 
light hours grow late; 

Where the lion of the sea basks warm by the side of the 
Golden Gate, 

And the gray gulls scream in mad delight as the ocean 
ships go out. 

At the table spread with lavish hands on the evening 
waves about. 

Oh, come where the salmon leaps with glee in the glorious 
summer sun. 

And flashes his silver armor bright in the vigor of his fun. 

Where the halibut in the peaceful calm of his ocean pas- 
ture deep. 

Jerks taut the line of the fisherman with the vim of his 
mighty leap. 

Oh, come where the palm trees fringe the shores of the 
mighty golden state, 



132 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

And the grapes and oranges hang rich and hungry pickers 

wait, 
Or where the walrus churns the sea and blows his trumpet 

loud ; 
Where the bright-eyed, furry-coated seal the Alaska is- 
lands crowd, 
Or where a host of towering peaks are mirrored in the 

sea, 
Where the mighty whale makes the ocean boil like a 

monster pot of tea. 
Where the icebergs float on the Arctic stream, like crystal 

mountains bright. 
Or mighty ghosts with silent tread gliding by in the 

misty night. 

Come where the stream of Oregon from the mighty moun- 
tains flows, 

Among the fields and happy homes where the prune and 
apple grows. 

And where the grain and grass grow high by the side of 
the winding stream. 

And in their plenteous comfort there the sheep and cattle 
dream ; 

Or where the mighty Columbia pours out its mountain 
flood 

To buffet back with sweeping hands the foaming ocean 
rude. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 133 

Oh, come with me to the gladsome Isle where the royal 

cit3' stands, 
Or where the Fraser river flows down over its golden 

sands ; 
Where the Union Jack floats over fields as rich' as Eden 

was, 
And offers, free from disease and woe, an enchanted home 

to us. 

Oh, come to Alaska's mystic wild — to the outposts of 

Chinook, 
Wliere the light bidarke skims the waves while the silent 

mountains look ; 
Where the firs and cedars fringe the shores and the Yukon 

sweeps the vales, 
Where wealth awaits the pick and plow" and labor never 

fails. 

Oh, come, oh, come, my daughter dear, to the coasts of 

evergreen. 
Where nature fair the whole jear through in a verdant 

robe is seen ; 
And the soft Chinook with gentle touch comes out of the 

warm southwest 
And draws for all a rich supply from Nature's bounteous 

breast. 

Oh, come, then, come, and make our home where a soft 

and gentle clime 
Makes the blood glide smoothly through one's veins and 

the pulses beat in time ; 
Where everything makes glad the heart and rests the 

weary eye, 
And we can live in jov and peace while the happv days go 

by. 



134 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

MT. ST. ELIAS.* 

Gray peak of the north, majestic ye stand, 
Silent alone in your solitude grand. 
Mount St. Elias, Father of Gold, 
A guard to the glittering path to the cold. 

Your fires have died 

And your rocks are cold. 
But your veins are asparkle 

With glittering gold. 
Your fingers reach out 

To the north and the south 
To touch as with magic 

The aged and the youth. 

Your yellow veins flow 

From the fields of the sun; 
Through the hills 

Of the new El'd Orado they run. 
But the heart which supplies them 

Is hid in your breast. 
Whence the arteries flow 

To the east and the west. 

Nature's crucibles melted your cofiEers to fill 
With treasures you lavish the world at j^our will ; 
You stand by the path to the realms of cold — 
Mt. St. Elias, Father of gold. 
*Written and published in 1888. 




GOOD MORNING, OREGON! 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 135 



THE STREAM OF OREGON. 

I am resting, sweetly resting on the placid sea of years 
Where are no distressful longings and we shed no bitter 

tears ; 
In my rose-embowered cottage while the time is gliding on 
In the shadow of the mountains by the stream of Oregon. 

In the sunshine of the springtime when the soft chinook 

has come, 
And the silent woods are gleaming with the waxen tril- 

lium, 
And the looms of nature's weavers have their carpeting 

begun, 

I am glad I am a dweller by the stream of Oregon. 

When the bowing fairy lily flecks the meadow o'er with 

white. 
And the air, so soft and balmy fills my spirit with delight, 
Like the lambs within the pasture I would skip and dance 

in fun 
O'er the slopes within the valley by the stream of Oregon. 

When the sanguine flowering currant paints each verdant 

copse with blood. 
And the blushing salmon berry shows its stars within 

the wood. 
And the yellow dandelion's shining in the mellow sun. 
We are happy in our cottage by the stream of Oregon. 



136 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

When the dogwood flowers are painted and hung among 
the trees 

With their broad and jnilky petals catching at the pass- 
ing breeze, 

And the snowy sweet syringa scents the very brooks that 
run, 

It is ecstacy to wander by the stream of Oregon. 

When the roses glow in June time all along the fences 

high, 
And modest blue forget-me-nots reflect the summer sky, 
And mysterious mountain magnets are repressless wooing 

one, 
I am glad my home is nestling by the stream of Oregon. 

When the purple clover blossoms mingle with the meadow 

green 
And have spread a royal vesture over all the summer 

scene, 
When the hay is sweetly curing in the glowing noonday 

sun. 
Then the air is full of fragrance by the stream of Oregon. 

When the bachelor button flecks like stars the pastures 

wide. 
And the cheerful purple iris adorns the road^vay side, 
And the white cinotheus blossoms the verdant hills upon. 
It is sweet to have our dwelling by the stream of Oregon. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 137 

When the glorious vine maple paints the hills with bril- 
liant hues, 

And the harvest time is over, and the bare feet seek their 
shoes. 

And the snowy mountains glisten with the web the frost 
has spun 

There is plenty in the valley of the stream of Oregon. 

So in comfort by the fireside of my cottage I will sit, 

Looking o'er the fields and orchards of the flowing Wil- 
lamette ; 

And I'll thank the Glorious Giver, when the course of 
life is run, 

That my lines were laid in pleasure by the stream of 
Oregon. 




138 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



VICTORIA ARM. 

Oh, I long to follow your winding way 

To the depths of the forest some beautiful day; 

To sit in my boat with my oars dipped deep, 

And pull to the nooks where your dark waters sleep ; 

To watch (while the whistling whirlpools go by 

In our pathway of bubbles reflecting the sky) 

The mansions and cottages nestling among 

Such scenes as the poets most often have sung; 

Where the lawns sloping down to your waters are seen. 

And are clothing your borders in carpets of green ; 

Where the rocks brown and mossy are washed by your 

stream. 
And basking in sunlight the gulls ever dream. 

I would bend to my oars, and my boat it should go 

With the foam on its bow like a drift in the snow, 

To some spot in your shade where in languor I'd lie 

With my hat o'er my eyes and look up at the sky, 

And dream of some fairy land picture afar, 

Where scenes ever tranquil and rapturous are; 

Or swing at my painter in some sheltered nook 

While I bury my mind in the leaves of a book. 

Or go to the grounds where the picnickers meet 

To waste summer hours with frolicking feet. 

To your gorge I would go where waters rush through 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 139 

And my boat cleaves the tide like the shaft from a bow, 
And then floating in on the flood I would dream 
Where pastures and meadows come down to your stream ; 
Where the farmhouse and orchard entrancingly glide 
On our vievv' as we lazily drift with the tide, 
Where the forest-fringed lake lies sleeping before 
Its mirror all green from the trees on the shore. v 

Oh, a day on your bosom, my pride and my love. 
Is a day stolen down from the ether above. 
And if I for 3'our joys must the penalty pay. 
Then a word of complaining I never shall say, 
But gladly I'll plead to the thrall of your charm, 
To the hours of delight on thee, beautiful Arm. 




149 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE SMILER WHO COUNTS. 

The man who will smile when he's having good luck 

And his neighbors are kind and polite 
Is all very well for a sunshiny day, 

And his jokes and his smiles are all right. 
But the smiler who counts is the one who can smile 

When luck isn't coming his way, 
Who can keep just as sweet when he hasn't a cent 

And be cheerful on one meal a day. 
Who says "excuse me!" when you step on his corns. 

And laughs when you cannot agree. 
Is always the same in good or bad luck 

And whatever the weather may be. 




SWlilET MEMORY, SNOQUALMIE. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 141 



SNOQUALMIE. 

Oh come, my friend, and follow me, 
Where pla3'^s the stream Snoqualmie, 
Where o'er the cliffs the waters flow, 
Mad leaping to the rocks below, 
And snowy mists the breezes blow. 

Where now my dreams are calling me. 

Come, then, my friend, and follow me, 
Where plays the stream Snoqualmie, 
So great its noise that all is still, 
In vale and forest, rock and hill, 
And hurling waters drown my will 

Where now my dreams are calling me. 

Come, come, my friend, and follo\v me. 
Where plays the stream Snoqualmie, 
Its raging waters madly tossed, 
And other sounds all dead and lost. 
And lips give but a sound at most. 

Where now my dreams are calling me. 

Then come, my friend, and follow me. 
Where plays the stream Snoqualmie, 
With me today and pass an hour, 
Lost where a world of waters roar, 
As plunging from the rocks they pour. 
Where now my dreams are calling me. 



142 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



Oh, come, then, come, and follow me, 
Where plays the stream Snoqualmie, 
Upon the bough the screeching ja}^ 
Is like to drive my dreams away, 
Unless you come with me today. 

Where now my dreams are calling me. 



tm 







THE SUNSET SHORE. 143 



THE HOMESICK PROSPECTOR. 

Oh lady of the Golden State, 

With kindness smiling in your face, 
With eye of blue and form of grace. 

Can I forget though frowning fate 
Has lead me far, oh, far away? 

Can I forget the cooling cup 

You gave me on that weary day, 
I plodded lone along the way? 

My lips were longing for the sup 
A little deed not soon forgot. 

The way has long and weary been, 
I sought thy bars Mokelumne, 
Or washed thy sands Tuelumne, 

I've many lonely moments seen 
Far from the shores of evergreen. 

The world is all a snowdrift here ; 
From Tia Juana San Joaquin, 
Or Mono I shall never wean ; 

Tulare, Tule, all, all, are dear. 

In this snow bound New England home. 



144 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Why did the old man ever roam 
(Oh, fair Kaweah and Tahoe) 
From evergreen to endless snow, 

Thus backw^ard from his sunset home, 
To pine unceasingly for thee? 

Life vuill a salty pillar be, 
Chehalem, Klamath, Coquille 
Labish, Umpqua and Owyhee 

And Walla Walla Nestache, 
For the old man, so far away. 

Sylvan Shannitch and Wapato, 
Chehalis and fair Pend d'Oreille, 
That I from thee so far should stray. 

Where thunders roll and cyclones blow; 
The old man will be back again. 

Multnomah, Samish, Yakima, 
Dosewallips, tumbling Quillaute, 
None shall my love for thee dispute, 

Whatcom, Chelan and Willapa, 
Thy placid bosoms I would float. 

Nicola, Tumtum, Chilukwyuk 

Stikine and Illecillewaet, 

Skena, Sumas and Lillooet, 
Once more Fd bend my winding track 

To thee for yellow hidden dust. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Even Alaska's far Yukon, 

Winding Kowak or cold Naatak, 
Or blue and sleeping Nushagak, 

Were fairer than the frozen sun 

Which shivers o'er this world of snow. 

The old homestead is not the same, 

About it nothings quite so dear 

As the warm hearts who brought me here; 
Nothing familiar but the name. 

With fifty years on me and it. 

Love cannot drive the gloom away, 
I long to hear the breakers roar 
Upon the ever vernal shore 

The afternoon of life I'd stay 

Where gently blows the soft Chinook. 

I long thy mountains near to be, 

Where wind their deep and dreamy shades, 
Sierra Nevada and Cascades, 

Shining in glittering sheen for me, 
A wall 'gainst predatory frosts. 

I'm coming, coasts of evergreen, 
Prepare my cabin by the bay. 
Where leaps the salmon in his play; 

Nieces and nephews cannot ween ; 
Bv thee the old man's dust shall b'e. 



146 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE GOLDEN GATE. 

"Where is the Golden Gate, Mamma?" 
Asked little Jane, in tones of awe, 
"Is there a really truly gate, 
"Like ours, where we all go to wait 
"For papa, when he's been at work, 
"And then comes home before its dark?" 

"The Golden Gate," said Mamma, "is where 
"Saint Peter waits at the top of the stair, 
"And welcomes in the true and good 
"(Who have done on earth just as they should) 
"To the glad green fields of Paradise, 
"Where everything is pure and nice." 

"Oh, yes, I know," said the little one, 

"That's away in heaven above the sun, 

"But isn't there one somewhere more near, 

"And not so far away from here? 

"It seems to me that sister Kate 

"Told the other day of a golden gate 

"Where people live in a big, big town, 

"At a place where they say the sun goes down; 

"And where there are ships and mountains, too, 

"A city of houses, really and true." 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 14; 

Said Mamma, "you dear old fashioned child," 

While she kissed the little one and smiled : 

"There is a Golden Gate, my dear, 

"Where the skies are soft all through the year; 

"Where the rivers and sea played basket ball 

"In the rocks and sand and broke the wall, 

"And piled the barriers aside, 

"And were helped in their work by the wind and tide. 

"They made a gate for the singing sea 

"To come inside in gladsome glee 

"And play with the rivers twice each day 

"At the place where the ocean lions stay. 

"The Spanish galleons passing by, 

"Sailed far away under southern sky, 

"In a mad, mad search for glittering spoil, 

"The fruits of others' weary toil. 

"They scanned the shores of the Golden State, 

"But missed in their search its big front gate. 

"But where is the Golden Gate?" again 
In eager accents queried Jane. 
"Oh, the Golden Gate is far away 
"On the shores of California, 
"Where the poppies shine like yellow suns, 
"Upon the flowery summer dunes ; 
"And when the palm and the orange trees 
"Drop sweet perfumes upon the breeze; 



148 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

"And the blood of the luscious grape is shed, 
"In a flowing stream of rich, rich red. 

"But about the gate, oh, Mamma, say 
"Do tell me, please, and right away." 

"Oh, the Golden Gate you could not climb 

"To wait for Papa at evening time, 

"Nor could you swing when it opened wide, 

"Upon the top of its flowing tide, 

"The gate is not of gold, my dear, 

"But the sands of the flowing rivers were, 

"And so they called it the Golden Gate, 

"For it leads to the gold of the Golden State, 

"And when the sun sets in the sea, 

"And his face looks through where the gate should be 

"The waves with a splendor glow unfold 

"In the sunset like a sea of gold; 

"And the place is always open wide, 

"For the gliding ships on the glowing tide, 

"And this, my dear, is the magic gate 

"Which leads to the fields of the Golden State. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 149 



TRYING TO FORGET. 

Oh, those little feet, how quickly all about the place 
they'd go, 

From the kitchen to the chamber and the cellar down 
below, 

To the barn and to the orchard, to the milk house and 
the spring, 

For our daughter, aged four, must have a hand in every- 
thing. 

If the day was set for baking she was surely making 

bread. 
If the churning was made ready she'd become a dairy 

maid. 
If old Ginger horse was harnessed and taken from his 

stall. 
It must surely be to give a ride to Eva and her doll. 

But one day they took our darling to the city on the hill, 
Where the streets are sad and solemn and the houses 

always still. 
Where the inmates never answer to the low and pleading 

cry 
At the doorway of their dwellings where they ever silent 

lie. 



150 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

They cleared away the baby's things while we were gone 

that day, 
To kindly help us to forget in such a simple way, 
But when the house we entered it was so lone and still 
That nothing came into our thoughts but Eva on the hill. 

Then at evening, in the gloaming, of the "now I lay me" 

time, 
To support us in our awful grief required support of 

Him. 
When we missed the little cradle sitting close beside our 

bed, 
Which so long had pillowed sweetly angel face and 

fluffy head. 

While the milking and the churning and the baking must 
be done, 

Just the same as when our darling came to help at every 
one. 

The little loaves were missing and the bitter tears would 
drop, 

And I mourned, while milking mooley, for the little wait- 
ing cup. 

But the thing which broke me up the most, when I was 

all alone, 
And getting out old Ginger when a lonely week had 

gone. 
Was a little ragged dolly down by the manger side. 
Where our baby girl had dropped it when last she took 

a ride. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 151 

Oh, that yellow-headed dolly, which her little hands had 

held, 
How it flowed my cup of sorrow already more than 

filled 
As tenderly I gathered up the soiled and tattered thing 
It seemed that I must almost hear the merry laughter 

ring. 

But the weary da3's have lengthened into slowly moving 

years 
Hopes for future joys and brightness take the place of 

'gretful tears, 
And the summer land of gladness with our baby 'mid the 

flowers. 
With its peaceful rippling waters we believe will soon 

be ours. 




152 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



SUMMER. 

Our summer comes from Paradise to stay a little while 
Each year, to warm earth, air and sky and make all nature 

smile. 
The summer winds blow gently on the coasts of ever- 
green, 
The summer sun he seldom cares to show his power I 

ween, 
And if he does, old ocean blows a breath across his sword. 
And takes the temper from his blade, and frights his fiery 
horde. 

Our summer is a memory of loveliness and joy, 

Which winter with his mists and rains can never quite 

destroy. 
And so we cast our lot upon the coast of evergreen, 
And breathe the ozone nonpareil which makes our senses 

keen. 
The pleasures of the season our every want supplies, 
Until we have small longing for another Paradise. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 153 



AUTUMN. 

Weeping, weeping, ever weeping 

For the joys of summer gone ; 
Frowning, frowning skies are frowning 

O'er delights which now are done. 

Weeping, frowning on the outside. 

Glowing, smiling still within 
For the fruits of summer bounteous 

Stored away in barn and bin. 

Faces washed with showers from heaven. 
Smiling pansies greet the morn ; 

Freshened by the autumn rain drops, 
Roses still the lawn adorn. 

From the maples and the alders 
Autumn leaves are falling, falling; 

Shrill, in noisy mass assembled. 

From the shores the gulls are calling. 

O'er the bay float shrill "cla-how-yas" 

Through the dusk from feathered throats, 

WTiile the winged armies gather 
With their loud discordant notes. 

Softly glows and gleams the firelight 
From the hearth with gladening cheer, 

Bringing welcom.ed consolation 
Comforting the aging year. 



154 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



NO TIME. 1 

"No time! no time! no time! no time!" 

I hear it everywhere I go. 
How sad it is there is no time 

For hurrying mortals here below. 

No time to read the daily news, 
No time to even stop and think. 

No time for courtesy or care, 

And hardly time to eat and drink. 

No time, no time for anything. 
But making dollars day by day. 

Nothing can stop the mad career. 
Unless we think 'twill surely pay. 

No time to heed our neighbors' woes, 

Or listen to a plaintive cry. 
No time to stop and look toward heaven, 

Or think upon eternity. 

No time ! no time ! no time ! no time ! 

Is the excuse for all neglect, 
When some one would a moment claim 

To whose intrusion we object. 

There is a day when we'll have time, 
And this excuse will not apply, 

For if we can't get time to live, 
We'll surely all take time to die. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 155 



CONTENT. 



It rained, and rained, and rained, and rained 

On the west side of the range, 
But Content just smiled at the weeping clouds 

And never thought it strange. 

She looked about her on the fields 

And saw how green they were, 
And the south wind blew the clouds apart 

And the bright sun smiled at her. 

And the song which was singing in her heart 

Came bubbling from her lips. 
While rain gems sparkled in the sun 

On the dripping maple tips. 

The sage brush grew and the gray dust blew 

And the sun shone every day 
On the land to the east of the mountain peaks 

Till the hills grew drj- and gray. 

But Content just smiled and worked and sang, 

While above the mad sun rolled, 
And she said that the reapers in the field 

Were boats in a sea of gold. 



156 THE SUNSET SHORE 



MR. LAZY AND I. 

Mr. Lazy and I are pretty good friends, 
Though we don't quite always agree, 

But I favor him a great deal sometimes, 
And sometimes he favors me. 

In the morning, w^hen I know its time to get up 

Mr. Lazy had rather lie still ; 
He stretches his legs, rolls over and groans, 

And says when he's rested he will. 

He is dreading the job, when he rolls out of bed, 

Of putting himself in his clothes. 
If he pulls himself out of the blankets so warm 

He will then have to dress him he knows. 

Through the day in the shade Mr. Lazy would sit 
With the hoe hanging up on a limb. 

Or possibly yawn and drop ofi in a nap 
If I did not reason with him. 

In the twilight at night when the day's work is 
done 

And the hour has come to retire, 
Mr. Lazy, who finds it a task to undress. 

Falls asleep in his chair by the fire. 

And so I must reason with him every day 

On each little thing that is done, 
But doubtless you'll be quite astonished to know 

When I tell you that we two are one. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 157 



LAUGHTER. 

Ha! ha! ha! 
I can't help it, I'm so full mamma! 
Ha! ha! ha! 

He! he! he! 
How your misfortunes tickle me! 
He! he! he! 

Haw ! haw ! haw ! 

I harrow up your feelings raw! 

Haw ! haw ! haw ! 

Ho! ho! ho! 
If 3'ou only knew as much as I know! 
Ho! ho! ho! 



158 THK SUNSET SHORE. 



THE VOICE. 

Oh, that still small Voice, how it sobs in the breast 
At word, thought or deed that is wrong. 

And oh, how it bursts with the glory of heaven, 
At the unselfish act, into song. 

"Is it best? is it right?" asks the still small Voice 

When the tempter suggesteth a way. 
Have a care, oh, beware ! when the warning comes. 

Will the deed for eternity pay? 

"Is it all for self? Is it just? is it true?" 

Softly asks the still small Voice. 
Heed the tender note of the Spirit's care. 

My friend, e'er you make your choice. 

Listen to the still small Voice, 

It will save you many a track 
That will paint your cheek with the blush of shame 

As down life's path you look back. 

It will guide you true, it will guide you sure 

To the realm of earthly bliss. 
And fit you full for eternal joys 

In a land which is better than this. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 159 



WHEN I GET BIG. 



"When I get big," my little Dick said, 
"I'll have a singing table and dancing bed." 
Emphatic orders from mamma had brought 
To the mind of the child this original thought: 
She had told him with no uncertain ring 
Not to dance on the bed or at table sing. 

I thought as I listened to the child 

And his dream of future joys 
The desire of the boy is about as the man's 

To be free from life's alloys. 
If the average man would open his heart, 

And speak like our Dickie so frank. 
His words would be something like this, I believe, 

A program with anarchy rank : 
"If I had my way I'd have a job 

\Vhere they didn't have any boss — 
Not even a prying proprietor — 

Who I was afraid to sass. 
I'd go to work whenever I pleased 

And quit when I had a mind 
I'd take no orders from any one 

Or anything of the kind. 
When I wanted to run to the window 

To watch the parade go by 



160 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

I'd just drop my work and hike, that's all, 

Nor give any reason why. 
I'd take a nap if I felt like it, 

And I'd come a half an hour late 
Whenever I wanted to, and wouldn't get docked, 

I think I'd like that first rate. 
I'd take an hour and a half for noon. 

And sleep in the morning till eight, 
If I came half an hour after whistle blew 

They would simply have to wait. 
I wouldn't have any care at all 

And everything should run 
Like a happenstance in a guess-so gang 

And life would be only fun. 





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THE SUNSET SHORE. K: 



MY VERY OWN. 



They're kind and good, 
They comfort me 

When I am sad and lone, 
Their hearts beat warm 
In kindly love, 

But they are not my own. 

I reap the joys 
And cull the flowers. 

Their seeds of kindness sown, 
Their friendship's dear — 
Their love can cheer 

But they are not my own. 

They never cuddled 
On my breast 

Their lullabies to croone 
Before the firelight's 
Ruddy glow. 

For they are not my own. 

They by their love 
And kindly deeds 

Into my heart have grown, 
But there's a void 
New friends can't fill — 

They're not my very own. 



162 



THE SUNSET SHORE.. 



They may be rich, 
They may be fair, 

But still my heart has flown 
Across the forests. 
Hills and streams 

To nestle with my own. 








»-*_^ » • ♦ «eV a^ * »^* ^-* • • • 

t» * ♦ • % ♦ • » • •-.* * * 



TIP. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 163 



TIP. 

He's the center of attraction for every spectator 

As he goes a riding up and down the flying elevator. 

The ladies say, "how cunning!" 

While the elevator's running, 

And they, laughing, miss their floors 

While he never saj^s a word. 
But he stands up in his corner 
Just like little Jacky Horner, 

And by complimentary comments 

Is not a moment stirred. 

He certainly's a dandy 

And he's very fond of candy 

In the crowded elevator. 

He saves his paws so handy 
That we think he is a treasure, 
While we shake his paw with pleasure. 
And take his comic measure: 

Tip, the elevator dog. 



3 84 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



ALASKA. 



Blow low, chinook, across the sea, 
And kiss Alaska's shores for me. 
Play o'er the hills of evergreen. 
And paint them with a brighter sheen. 
Along the vales blow breath of spring, 
While low a thousand pine harps sing. 
Make glad, while frozen rivers run. 
The golden land of midnight sun. 

FLOWERS. 

Oh land of beauty and of cheer. 

And not of gloomy darkness drear; 

The tundras tell chinook has come, 

Where glows bright polemonium; 

The orchid and the iris gay 

Bring brightness to the blooming day. 

The yellow poppies tell of gold 

Hid 'neath the pregnant teeming mold. 

Forget-me-nots look up to skies 

As blue as their own constant eyes. 

The lilies of the valley gleam 

Where marguerites and bluebells dream. 

The dainty primrose, violet fair, 

All glorify the verdure there; 

And many another grace the bowers 

Of fair Alaska, land of flowers. 




OBLEKA SAYS ALASKA IS A LAND OF FLOWERS. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



165 



THE FUTURE. 

Blow low, chinook, across the plain, 
Where wave the fields of growing grain- 
Across the meadows, sweet with hay 
Where rings the mower's tuneful lay; 
Cross pastures where a thousand kine 
Create in thee an open mine, 
Where patient reindeer brouse and feed 
And willing serve as cow or steed. 
A nation's bread shall come from thee 
Land of the north, so far and free. 




166 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



HOMESICK. 

I'm homesick when I'm hungry, 

No matter where I am; 
The cure for my nostalgia 

'S a good sized slice of ham, 
Or pork and beans, or doughnuts 

Like mother used to make; 
I could even eat a mess of greens. 

Or pie, or jelly cake. 

When I'm alone it seems to me 

That everj^thing she made 
Comes trooping through my memory 

From pies to lemonade; 
And then I get so homesick 

That I could almost die. 
Though on my chest there is a load, 

Of course I cannot cry. 

There's crispy doughnuts smoking hot 

Just from the sizzing fat. 
And smearkase all mixed up with cream- 

A tempting little pat. 
There's fruit cakes full of raisins. 

And strawberries and cream 
And honey and cream biscuits 

To make a fellow dream. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 167 

And last of all — not least of all — 

I know they're not dessert — 
Are snowy baked potatoes — 

They make my memory hurt — 
With butter or cream gravy, 

And chicken wings beside, 
Or else a tender drumstick 

All crispy brown and fried. 

And so I sit a moping 

As homesick as can be 
Because the things that mother made 

My memory brings to me, 
To fill my mind with longing 

While my stomach is as flat 
As any buckwheat pancake or e'en the old rag mat. 




168 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



A STORY OF LOVE. 

A story of love in green and white 

Was the flower you wore this morning, 

(I read as you came through the office door) 
Its petals j'our coat adorning. 

That little flower tells of tripping feet, 
Of a heart which beats e'er true, 

And it tells of pinky fingers deft 
Which culled its bloom for you. 

It tells a story of tender eyes, 
Watching with constant cares. 

From which glows the sympathy of a soul 
Your joy and your sorrow shares. 

It tells of warm and clinging arms 

Yielding reluctant release. 
With a sunny head on a shoulder pressed 

E'er the morning's partings cease. 

The little flower breathes a story of life 
Which spoke the sweet good-byes 

Which sweeten the moments all day long 
Through all the toil which tries. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. ICS 



WEATHER GRUMBLERS. 

The grumblers growl at April, 
And they grumble at July. 

There's too much rain in January, 
And August is too dry. 

July's too hot, October cold, 
And March has too much wind. 

September is too smoky, 

While May — well, never mind. 

December and November, 
And even June, can't keep 

The grumblers from growling 
Unless they are asleep. 

One wet day makes them all forget 

The sunny ones before, 
And at the February frosts 

They raise a doleful roar. 

In every year there are more daj^s 
Of sunshine than of rain ; 

So growlers, just remember that, 
And don't give us a pain. 

If the growlers made the weather 
They couldn't please themselves, 

So let us gently pass them up 
And lav them on their shelves. 



170 THE SUNSET SHORE. 



NEW YEAR'S. 

(Ex. 12, 2.) 
God's new year's day is in the spring, 
When happy birds begin to sing, 
And blushing flowers all round are seen, 
And all the world is clothed in green. 

Man's new year's comes, when gray and old, 
The streams of life wax slow and cold; 
And buried in a grave of snow 
The world is all too dead to grow. 

As youth crowds out the childish days. 
So Summer's bloom obscures the ways 
Of Spring, as youth, if not more pure, 
Reigns with demeanor more demure. 

With Springtime's joyous days forgot. 
When glow of Summer's youth is not, 
Autumn's fruition gathered in. 
Winter, the year's last days begin. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 171 



A GENTLE REMINDER. 

Have you heard of Oliver Cromw^ell Day, 

Who lived down in old Eleuthera, 

Where the v^^inds blow life every day in the year 

And old age is the only thing men fear? 

Where the pineapples blush in the glowing sun, 

And when summer's ended then spring's begun. 

Where the palm trees wave and the blue seas sing 

And the sea bird floats with lazy wing? 

He lived the three score years and ten 
That belonged to him, and then 
Another that belonged to eternity. 
So the years rolled on and by and by 
He became afraid that God had forgot 
That there was such a man, and what 
Did he do but fret and mope, 
From morning till night without any hope. 

"I'm sure that the Lord wouldn't let me stay 
While he's taken everj^body else away!" 
Said he, "if he knew in Eleuthera 
Was lonesome old Oliver Cromwell Day." 
And so the old man grieved and pined 
And couldn't a bit of comfort find 
While he thought of his Cloe in Paradise 
And dolefully wiped his tearful e3'es. 



172 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Things went on so for quite a good while, 
And nothing could make the old man smile. 
He was healthy and hearty and no more slow 
Than he was a hundred years ago, 
But he just seemed tired of living, was all 
Of waiting to hear the white-winged call. 
To lay aside all cares of life 
And go to join his departed wife. 

But one evening old Oliver brightened up 
While he sat to partake of his humble sup 
In his great great grandson's lowly home, 
And his mind seemed over the years to roam. 
He spoke of the days of long ago. 
When life was bright with his darling Cloe, 
Of joys of the day — with brightening eyes — 
WTien they two should meet in Paradise. 

He retired that night with an old love song 

And no one thought of any wrong 

For the old man seemed himself again — 

To have given up his pinings vain. 

They found him next morning cold and gray 

In the crystal waters of the bay, 

With a stone in a sack and a rope tied fast 

He'd reminded the Lord of his child at last. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 173 



HAWTHORNE SPRING. 

One day I came from the roar and din 

Of the streets a-wandering 
And heard in the shadows, hid away, 

The song of Hawthorne spring. 

The day was fair, the day was rare. 

And I did not a thing 
But sit in the shade and sweetly dream, 

By the side of Hawthorne spring. 

In the dark green glen so fresh and fair 

With the waters pattering. 
Where the truant sparrow comes to bathe, 

Is hidden Hawthorne spring. 

And if the muse will stop with me, 

And I can only sing, 
A sonnet shall gush from my grateful heart 

To the stream of Hawthorne spring. 

Of all the blessings earth can give, 

Or from its treasure bring, 
There are none more rich among its joys 

Than flow from Hawthorne spring. 



174 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



The earth gives out her stream of life 
And the shouts of children ring, 

Where men and women slake their thirst, 
In the flood of Hawthorne spring. 

I wander away to other scenes, 

But my thoughts still fondly cling 

To the glen in the heart of the city. 
Where gushes Hawthorne spring. 
Portland, Oregon, Sept. 8, 1905. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 175 



FAITH. 

"Substance of things hoped for?" 

Yea, more, and begetteth that 

Which makes the things expected 

As real as they themselves. 

Makes manna of a crust. 

Speaks assurance from the grave. 

Offers triumphant translation 

For the somber gloom of death. 

Gives courage to launch forth 

Boldlj^ into the far unknown. 

Makes fruitful the barren field. 

Robes present trials v^^ith a veil 

Of future joys of Paradise. 

Makes willing to suffer for a time 

In hopes of eternal joys to come. 

Even stays the death angel's hand 

Levels obstacles in our way, 

Saves our loved ones from the 

Noisome pestilence of darkness. 

Shuts the mouths of lions. 

Stays the fury of the flames. 

Transforms a mother's kiss 

Into a magic panacea. 

Brings Paradise to view, 

Waters love until the plainest flower 

Becomes a rose most fair. 

Builds a golden ladder 

From earth to heaven. 

Gives power to walk the troubled sea 

Of human strife and weakness, 

Yea, the just shall live by thee. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



THE OREGON TRAIL. 

A Variegated Epic. 

I. 

The Old Home. 
Place for the memory to linger, 

Birthplace of hopes and cheers, 
Mother of dreams and longings 

For the days of bygone years. 

Its walls were made of magic wood. 

Its grounds of sacred earth, 
But it never could hold its growing flock 

To the place that gave them birth. 

Its streams were more full of laughter, 

Its trees and flowers most fair. 
But across the meadows and woods and plains 

Came a wooing voice on the air. 

Then the place where mother is. 

With its comforts and its joys. 
When the call of the west comes over the peaks, 

Can't hold all the girls and bo\'^s. 

The passing covered wagons 
Told the birds of a golden day, 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 177 

So thej'^ left the old nest for the wooing west 
And a new one far away. 

II. 

The Ox Team. 
Bow low to the yoke and heave and strain 

To the tune of the loud gee haw! 
Go Bright and Buck, you'll need j'our pluck, 

You've a precious load to draw. 

The slipp'ry hills and lakes of mud 

And rivers you have to meet, 
The oceans of sand and mountain peaks 

Will try your sturdy feet. 

So chew your cuds with never a word. 

And if you get through at last, 
When you lie down to rest on the evergreen shore 

You'll forget all the weary past. 

So gee haw Buck, and back haw Bright ! 

And make the ox bows squeak, 
And we'll sight the old Missouri 

Before the end of the week. 

III. 

A Muddy Rubicon. 
A turbid flood, a river of mud 

Sweeps before the great unknown, 



178 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

But the pilgrims launched on its swelling tide, 
Nor fear nor languor own. 

The blue sand dunes, like an ocean wide, 

Wave welcome to the band 
Across Missouri's turbid stream 

To the trail to the western land. 

They cross, and the last tie severs now 

To the old forsaken home ; 
The stream has written finis 

At the end of the youthful tome. 

IV. 

The Platte River. 
Inebriate stream with shifting course 

Your maunderings to and fro, 
The dissipation of your course 

Can no man ever know? 

Your treacherous sands whose clammy arms 

Seek victims to embrace 
With your collusion hide a grave 

Beneath a shining face. 

V. 

The Desert. 
Place where the just and unjust never were 
For had they been there had been rain. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 179 

Plains where the child of nature roamed 

Too simple he to comprehend 

The difference 'twixt just and unjust. 

Hence your rainless sands outstretching 

To consume the weary pilgrim by the way. 

E'er he should reach the distant goal 

Beyond the peaks, which seeks his longing soul. 

But now the just and unjust have appeared, 

Roamed out to your once barren wastes, 

The promise is made good. 

The rains have come, 

The desert blossoms as the rose. 

VI. 

The Mirage. 
Strange vision of the plains; 

Ignusfatus of the toil worn travelers' dreams 
Relentless, cruel, but surpassing fair 

With all thy beauteous lakes and streams 
Less tangible than the atmosphere 

Which gives )^our mystic beauties birth 
And with the merciless sun conspires 

To scourge again the burning earth 
The shimmer of your wavelets in his rays 

Are but to taunt the pilgrim worn 
While vanishing you gloat 

O'er hope from out his quivering bosom torn. 



180 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

VII. 

The Graves. 
May be a piece of sideboard, perchance a heap of stones 
Or possibly an endboard to mark the resting bones. 
These silent mounds of earth piled up along the weary 

way 
Tell of the tired wanderers who have gone home to stay 
They rest along the winding trail this army of the dead 
The road to Oregon has led to their eternal bed. 

Upon the desert highway and in the mountain shade, 
Where fell the dead of '52 their silent graves are made. 
From Iowa to Utah and on to Oregon, 
The path's among the new-made graves from morn to 
setting sun. 

VIII. 
The Sage Brush. 
Like flocks of startled sheep 

The gray clumps cluster on the knolls, 
Silent, suggestive, mysterious, where 
The prairie's quiet ocean rolls. 

Curious the passing pilgrims gaze 

Expectantly, and strain the ear 
To listen for the shepherd's call. 

The solitude to cheer. 

Each passing day a waiting flock 
On some new hill is seen. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. ISl 

Nor seem to fear the sly coyote 
Whose shadow steals between. 

IX. 

The Indians. 
The pilgrims' camp the red men view 

Like eagles circling round, 
But find no welcome from the band 

Within the sacred ground. 

A barrier of wheels forbids 

The curious braves' approach ; 
The language of a rifle's mouth 

Speaks plainly: "don't encroach!" 

The children of the wilderness 

All have their cheerful ways; 
Their presence in the region 

Calls for watchful nights and days. 

Cheyennes or Uraatillas 

Were better out of sight; 
Their appearance by the camp fire 

Always meant a sleepless night. 

X. 

The Buffalo. 
Like some mighty turbid river 

Comes the surging, thundering herd, 



182 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

While with awe the waiting pilgrims 
Watch and utter not a word. 

Endless seems the mighty sweeping 
Stream of rolling, heaving life, 

Roaring on with power resistless, 
And with awful danger rife. 

None can stem the mighty torrent; 

Woe to him who in its way 
With his puny arm resisting 

Would its thundering current stay. 

XL 

The Coyote. 
Ever present serenader, 

With his multivoiced refrain, 
Howling, whining, yelping, squealing, 

Over hill and over plain. 

How the rocks and hills re-echo. 
Till he seems an eager pack, 

Ravenous, with cries pursuing 
Some unlucky creature's track. 

Constantly he greets the pilgrims. 
As they journey on their way. 

With his plaintive echoing sonnets, 
On the trail both night and day. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 183 

XII. 

The Mountains. 
Mothers of the infant rivers: 

From thj' breasts the weaned rills 
Run, a laughing, singing concourse 

Down exploring plains and hills. 

Glad the pilgrims viewed the shadows 

Of the peaks and solemn deeps, 
For beyond the hidden mysteries 

Their new home in beauty sleeps. 

Comforts must be in the bosoms 

Where have nursed the crystal streams, 

And thy charm but half disclosing 
Must fulfill expectant dreams. 



The pilgrims plodded on their way 
Through spiney cactus, sage brush gray; 
With wagon box for ferry crossed 
The rivers from the mountains tossed. 

With wondering eyes the antelope 
Surveys the train from some near slope; 
The hunter chases him in vain, 
Like light he flashes o'er the plain. 



184 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

With ears like exclamation points, 
The jack rabbit with supple joints 
Leaps gaily while the pilgrims stare. 
He bounds along and doesn't care 
If dogs his footsteps follow hard 
For he their barks does not regard. 

The lazy sage hen flutters slow, 
And thought of danger does not know, 
While prairie dogs with barks of glee 
The weary emigrants to see, 
Stand guardsmen at their village doors, 
Or scamper frisking on all fours. 

The honest rattler by the way 
Avoids not bravely to betray 
His hated presence to the foe 
Before the strikes the fatal blow 
Or meets his enemy's assault, 
Who executes without a halt. 

They cross the frost-like alkali, 
These pilgrims, who are like to die. 
With thirst they here can not allay 
With burning throats push on all day. 

They pass the landmarks by the way, 
Tall Chimney rock, which pointing gray 
Speaks mutely of an ancient day. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Ship of the desert the}' descry 

While Steamboat rock they wander by 

"Tomb of a thousand souls," they cry, 

As Independence they espy. 

One carves his name and goes to sleep ; 

Another comes, and cutting deep 

His predecessors' names deface, 

Nor leaves a mark to tell the place 

Where pilgrims passing marked the spot 

Before they fell and then were not. 

We leave our marks while in the race 
For time and others to efface. 
Nor realize Eternal grace 
Can only save for us a place 
Nor time nor man can e'er erase. 

The forts the pilgrims hail with joy. 
Of desert wanderings they cloy. 
They sigh for Larramie and Hall : 
■'The flag's in sight!" in glee they call, 
When Larramie, with banner high 
And friendly walls they first descry, 
The starry flag and men in blue 
Old memories stir, old ties renew. 
A sense of safety cheers the soul 
Where floats the flag and drum beats roll. 



186 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Sweet Water's crystal torrent cheers ; 
The weary pilgrims dry their tears, 
Their strength renewed to climb the peaks 
A glad relief for weary weeks. 

The winding Snake they travel down ; 
Behind the Rocky mountains frown. 
Sometimes the stream they follow close, 
Then towering headlands steep oppose. 
Then up they climb to table lands, 
Where sweep the drifts of desert sands. 
The rolling hills, the canyons crossed 
Again they find the river lost. 

At Soda Springs they slake their thirst, 
And feel that they have passed the worst. 
One Thousand Springs at last they see. 
And wonder why it could not be 
The desert might with some of these 
The pilgrims' burning thirst appease. 

They saw the Malade river hide 
Beneath the rocks to seek the tide. 
They saw it leave the light of day 
To seek a subterranean way. 

They crossed at last the mighty stream 
And plunged among a mountain dream 
Where Powder River's snow-clad peaks 
Point heavenward with their rugged beaks. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 187 

The beautiful Blue Mountains rise 

A picture on the good night skies; 

Their shadows offer sweet relief 

For many a weary traveler's grief. 

There countless rivers celebrate 

Their birth, and hastening do not wait, 

But seek for verdant winding ways 

To get where the Columbia plays ; 

Or where the Snake in passing by 

Cuts through the hills and mountains high. 

Their pine clad slopes and valleys green 

Form fairest vistas ever seen. 

And tempt the weary pilgrims there 

To cast their lot mid scenes so fair. 

With tapering finger pointing high 
Mt. Hood the Pilgrims soon descry 
They glad approach its snowy peak 
Beyond they know's the home they seek. 

At last Columbia's flowing stream 
Brings near its close the pilgrim's dream. 
Its sweeping tide will bear them on 
Among the scenes of Oregon ; 
Or from the trail along its banks 
They'll watch its noisy wayward pranks 
Till of its mountain plaj^mates tired 
It finds its ocean home desired. 



18S THE SUNSET SHORE. 

The New Home. 

A flood of homesickness o'erpowers. 
This home so far, this home of ours. 
Cut from the old home, aye for aye ; 
We naught can do but sit and cry. 
Avi^ay, away beyond the hills; 
The deserts passed our memory fills. 
The way so long we ne'er can trace 
The winding path with weary pace. 
The silent sob, the yearning sigh 
Tell of the voiceless inward cry. 
So far, so lone, old home ties gone, 
But from the cloud the new shall dawn. 

Soon, soon the ocean breezes blow 
Where cedars and vine maples grow 
Their peaceful homes the pilgrims found 
On Willamette or Puget Sound. 
To work they set with heart and hand 
To build an empire great and grand. 
Since they have conquered all the trail 
They feel that now they cannot fail. 
So they commence with ready cheer — 
Their gardens plant, their cabins rear, 
And thus they settle at the end 
On shores where peace and plenty blend. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 189 



"GOOD ENOUGH." 

You say its good enough, my son, 

With all its faults and flaws. 
With all its blots and misspelled words 

And lines like spiders' claws. 
But let me tell you, sonny — 

It may be prettj^ tough — 
But a thing that isn't finished right 

Is never good enough. 

Our Billy went to plant one day 

Potatoes on the farm. 
Although 'twas early in the spring 

The weather was quite warm. 
So Billy, just to hurry things 

Without too much hard work 
Just covered them with sorghum stools, 

The lazy little shirk. 

In autumn when the time had come 

For harvesting the crop 
There were no 'tatoes in the field 

But sorghum roots on top. 
Now Billy said that they would do 

And tried to b'lieve the stuff, 
A thing that isn't finished right 

Is never good enough. 



190 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

The carpenter he built a bridge, 

He said, "Oh, that'll do!" 
Some of the timbers were not straight, 

The joints were not all true. 
A train went down one day and crushed 

A hundred people there. 
Because that carpenter had done 

His work with little care. 
They dragged the poor torn bodies out — 

I tell you it was rough. 
A thing which isn't finished right 

Is never good enough. 

They built an iron ship one time 

They took the job too cheap, 
The price of labor was so high 

And iron was so steep. 
So when they put the rivets in 

They filled the holes with wood. 
The inspector, puffing at his pipe 

Said it was "very good." 
The ship was wrecked, it sprung some plates 

And fifty men were drowned. 
And others took to the small boats 

And they were never found 
That ship was wrecked because the man 

Thought too much of his puff. 
A thing that isn't finished right 

Is never good enough. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 



191 



And so don't say "its good enough" 

Until its finished right; 
And when you're doing anything 

Be careful not to slight. 
When some one tries to show you 

Don't fall into a hufif. 
A thing that isn't finished right 

Is never good enough. 




192 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

THE EAGLE'S LAMENT. 

(Written at the eagle cage, Woodland Park, Seattle.) 
I long to be free on m)^ own native mountain — 

To cleave the pure ether vi^itli eye on the sun — 
To fly to the crags v^^here the frost jewels glitter 

The glaciers sweep down and the river's begun. 

I languish in prison, enchained by a people 

Enthralled by its greed while I long to be free ; 

The bird of the nation degraded and humbled. 
Nor honored as much as the crow on yon tree. 

Oh, come ye patriots, come to my rescue, 

And tear down the walls of my prison house here ; 

Ye brave men who followed old glory to victory, 

Free the bird of your country with song and with cheer. 

Come with me to the mountains and breathe the pure 
ether 

Up close to the stars and the heavens of blue. 
And learn of the throbs of the heart of the eagle 

In the school of his beetling crags strong and true. 

Are the patriots gone to the tombs of their fathers 
That I, like a miscreant, in durance must pine? 

Oh, give me a taste of that blood-purchased freedom, 
Or take from j/our banner that image of mine. 









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THE SUNSET SHORE. 191 



SENTIMENT. 

Some people scoft at sentiment, 

And say it is all gush, 
But when I hear them talk that way 

I always tell them hush. 

For sentiment's the only thing 
Which causes us to give — 

The only thing that lightens loads 
And makes life fit to live. 

It's sentiment that causes 
Wajovard boys to recollect 

The prayers that mother prays, 
For them, and to reflect 

Upon their w^aj^s and turn and seek 

Their praying mother's God, 
Repenting, thoughtful, to forsake 
The wayward paths they've trod. 

'Tis sentiment which caused the boy 

With tender loving care 
To shelter mother in his home 

In a warm corner there, 



194 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

And sentiment kept father 

From the poorhouse on the hill, 

Because its e'er persuading force 
The children's senses thrill. 

It's sentiment which children have 
Which makes them honor age, 

And tenderly the bowing cares 
Of their last days assuage. 

'Tis only sentiment which makes 

The gentleman refined, 
So thus he treats with deference 

And honor woman kind. 

It's sentiment which plants the flower 

Upon the silent grave ; 
'Tis this which ever keepeth green 

The memory of the brave. 

'Tis sentiment which kindness brings, 
And makes us look above 

And makes us lift each other up — 
The sentiment of Love. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 195 



THE NEW NATION. 



The agony of centuries is rolled away, 
The mother nation comes from out infinity 
To gather to its breast in tender care 
Its needy children, and their burdens bear. 
From west to east wherever shines the sun, 
Upon the sons of men, while seasons run. 
This nation's hand extended ever thus 
Dispenses needful bounties generous. 

Blind eyes are opened, and the maimed made whole; 

The crippled healed in body, mind and soul. 

Physician of its people, its maternal rule 

Makes sickness impossible, and to e'en a fool 

The way of life and health made plain. 

And banished from the kingdom woe and pain. 

There are no starving, and the hungry find 
Supplies their every need this nation kind. 
The ragged with clothing does this nation bless 
And doth in robes of righteousness its people dress. 

The disobedient are made to feel the power. 
The nation's mandates, and for not an hour 
Unpunished goes injustice, and no case appealed; 
The iron rod of right will never yield. 



196 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

There is no court but one to execute 
Before it wrong and selfishness are mute. 
Wrong will be stayed before its done, 
The nation's hand will throttle e'er begun 
The act of selfishness and greed, 
And every subject must its mandates heed. 

The greedy will be temperate; with no waste 
Will the new nation ever be disgraced. 
The lazy be industrious and work. 
And honest toil will no one ever shirk. 
Crime be unpunished for there'll be no crim.e, 
Man's impulse guided by a hand sublime. 
Beneath the sun the flag of right unfurled 
The nation's rule will be the wide wide world. 




THE SUNSET SHORE. 197 



ELOISE OF SNOHOMISH. 

A Song. 

Her face is sweet and her little feet 

Are busy all day long, 
She loves the whole world fervently, 

And her heart is full of song. 

Chorus — 

Farewell, old world, I'm going to her, 

Among her crags and trees; 
You've nothing so sweet as the kiss and smile 

Of my darling Eloise. 

Her hands are soft, and her voice is low. 
And her heart is tender and kind, 

And among her mountains green and white 
No purer can you find. 

Chorus — 

Like a happy bird she flitted in 

To my heart that summer day, 
For love shone in her blue, blue eye. 

And tempted me to stay. 



198 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Chorus — 

I've wandered the wide world over, 

Through all its lands and seas, 
I'll hie me back to Snohomish 

And my darling Eloise. 

Chorus — 

Then ask me not to longer stay 

Amid the toil and strife, 
For I must go where the mountains glow, 

For she's to be my wife. 

Chorus — 

And now, while the lutes of the wind play low, 

Among the swaying trees ; 
In peace I listen, while I dream. 

To the song of my Eloise. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 199 

IMMANUEL'S LAMP. 

119/// Psalm. 

Though dark the way, we 3-et are undefiled, 

If walking in his law for whom creation smiled, 

Blessed is the one who keeps his testament, 

To find his way whose heart is ever bent. 

No evil can ingulf the one who stays. 

He's always safe within thy lighted v/ays. 

Thou hast commanded diligent to keep. 

Thy precepts; then whether I'm awaking or asleep, 

Oh, may my ways for e'er directed be. 

Thy statute be the hand that guideth me. 

Then I shall never blush when I reflect, 

When thy commandments ever I respect. 

I'll praise thee ever with an upright heart, 

When thy right judgments thou to me impart. 

Thy statutes I will ever keep; 

Thou wilt not leave me utterly to weep. 

Wherewith shall the young man keep clean? 
When by thy light his way is ever seen. 
I've sought thee with an undivided heart; 
Oh let me not from thy commands depart. 
Thy word is hid my trusting heart within; 
Against thee, then, I nevermore may sin. 
Teach me thy statutes, Lord, thou blessed one; 



200 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Declared have I thy judgments every one. 
Thy testimonies have my earthly vuay rejoiced. 
As much as riches yea w^ithout alloys. 
Thy precepts I w^^ill meditate upon, 
Respect unto thy w^ays have ever done. 
I w^ith thy statutes will myself delight; 
Thy word, will e'er remember it aright. 

Oh with thy servant bountifully deal, 

Thy word in keeping I may live and feel. 

Often mine eyes that I may rightly see 

The wonders of thy holy law for me. 

A stranger in this teeming earth am I, 

Hide not commandments from my mortal eye. 

My soul breaks for the longing that it hath 

At all times for thy judgments in my path. 

Thou hast rebuked the proud who are accursed; 

From thy commandments do they erring burst. 

Remove from me reproaches and contempt; 

Thy testimonies kept do me exempt. 

Against me also princes sat to prate ; 

Thy statutes did thy servant meditate. 

Thy testimonies, also my delight, 

My counsellors are ever day and night. 

My soul is prone to cleave unto the earth ; 
By thy word, Lord, give unto me new birth. 
Thou hast heard me declare my earthly ways, 
Teach unto me thy statutes and thy praise. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 201 

Make me to understand thy precepts' grace, 
So shall I tell thy wondrous works by days. 
For heaviness my soul would melted be; 
According to thy word strengthen thou me. 
Habit of lying Lord do thou remove; 
Graciously thy law grant me in love. 
The way of truth indeed has been my choice, 
Before me laid thy judgments, I rejoice. 
Unto thy testimonies Lord have I adhered, 
Oh put me not unto the shame I feared. 
The way of thy commandments I will run, 
When thou enlargement of my heart hast done. 

Teach me, oh Lord, thy statutes' way, 

And I shall keep it to eternal day. 

An understanding of thy law impart ; 

I will observe it with a single heart. 

Make me to go in thy commandments' path, 

For walking there my soul rejoicing hath. 

Unto thy testimonies, oh my heart incline, 

That weeds of covetousness may not my life entwine. 

Oh turn my eyes from empty vanity; 

Thy way may I be wholly quickened by. 

Thy word establish in thy servant's ear; 

So shall I ever Lord thyself revere. 

Turn from me the reproach I ever feared. 

For by the prospect of thy judgments I am cheered. 

Thy precepts have I longed within my heart; 

Thy righteousness to quicken me impart. 



202 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Oh let thy mercies come unto me, Lord ; 

Save me according to thy holy word. 

So shall I have w^herewith to answer him, 

For in thy word my trust has ever been. 

Take not thy word from out my mouth away, 

For in thy righteous judgments is my stay. 

So shall I keep thy law continually for aye, 

And in thy precepts ever walk at liberty. 

In front of kings I'll boldly stand and speak 

Of testimionies thine I ever seek. 

Commandments thine for my delight have proved, 

For them my soul has ever loved. 

To thy commands my hands will I lift up ; 

I loved them; and thy statutes I will sup. 

Allow me not within thy word to grope, 

For in it thou hast caused me thus to hope. 

In my affliction does it comfort me. 

For by thy word my spirit's eyes do see. 

The proud have had me greatly in contempt; 

To live without thy law I'll not attempt. 

Remembered I thy judgments just of old. 

Have comforted myself in them by laying hold. 

Horror hath taken hold upon me when I saw 

The wicked wanton who forsake thy law. 

Thy righteous statutes they have been my song. 

While journeying this earthly pilgrimage along, 

Thy name, oh Lord, remembered I by night; 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 203 

Thy law in reverence I heeded right. 
This, Lord, thy servant able was to do, 
Because he ever kept thy precepts true. 

Thou art my portion and thy precious words 
I've said I'd keep, and it sweet peace affords 
With all my heart thy favor I entreat. 
And by thy word bring mercy and alight my feet. 
Upon thy way my inner being yearned ; 
My feet unto thy testimonies turned. 
I hastened me thy testaments to keep. 
With them my soul could never fall asleep. 
Though wicked hands have robbed even me, 
I never have forgot thy law to see. 
At midnight from my humble couch I'll rise, 
Because of righteous judgments from the skies. 
Those who revere thee are my friends, indeed. 
With them I would thy precepts ever heed. 
Thy mercy fills the needy earth, oh, Lord, 
Teach me the statutes of thy mighty word. 

Thou hast dealt v/ell with me, my Lord; 
Thy servant sees, according to thy v/ord. 
Teach me good judgment and thyself to know. 
For thy commandments I have trusted so. 
Before afflicted I did go astray. 
But by thy word I now walk In thy way. 
Oh, thou art good and always doest good. 
For I thy righteous statutes ever would. 



>04 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Against me now the proud have forged a lie, 
But with whole heart thy statutes keep will I. 
Their lustful heart is very fat with grease, 
But with thy law I e'er my heart will please. 
'Tis good for me that I've afHicted been. 
For thus thy holy statutes I have seen. 
This law of thine is better far to me 
Than coffers full of gold and silver be. 

Thy mighty hands have made and fashioned me; 

Give understanding thy commands that I may see. 

Who fear thee will be glad at sight of me. 

Because upon thy word my hope shall be. 

I know, oh. Lord, thy judgments they are right, 

They faithfully affect to bring me light. 

Let me take comfort from thy mercy rare, 

According to thy word do never spare. 

Let mercies tender overshadow now, 

That I may live ; thy law is my delight, I vow. 

The proud perversely dealt with me without a cause; 

Oh let them be ashamed, I love thy laws. 

Let those who fear thee unto me be turned. 

And those who have thy testimonies learned. 

Thy statutes for my heart a solid ground. 

That I be not ashamed when I am found. 

For thy salvation doth my life e'er faint; 
I have a living hope thy word acquaint. 
Mine eyes are failing for thy word to see. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 205 

Saying, my Lord, "when wilt thou comfort me?" 

For I am like a bottle in the smoke becom-C, 

Yet keep thy statutes "in my earthly home. 

What do the years thy servant has compute? 

When wilt thy judgments come on those who persecute? 

The pit the proud have digged for me I saw. 

And know their work is not according to thy law. 

All thy commands they faithful are I know, 

They wrongful persecute, help thou me go. 

They had almost consumed me on the earth; 

I in thy precepts find eternal worth. 

After thy loving kindness quicken ; wake from sleep. 

The testimony of thy mouth I'll ever keep. 

Settled in heaven thy word forever is, 

And unto all is shown thy faithfulness. 

To generations coming, and in ages past 

The earth's established, thou hast made it fast. 

By thy ordaining they abide today; 

All are thy servants held beneath thy sway. 

Unless thy law had been my soul's delight. 

In my affliction I'd have perished in the night. 

Thy precepts. Lord, I never will forget, 

For with them thou dost quick'ning power beget. 

The wicked they have sought me to destroy; 

Thy testimonies do my mind employ. 

Of all perfection I have seen an end, 

But thy commandments very broad extend. 



206 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Oh how I love thy law, thy lightened way; 

It is my meditation all the day. 

Through thy commandments thou hast made me wise 

To overcome my enemies before my eyes. 

A'lore than my teachers I have understanding found, 

For in my mind thy testimonies e'er abound. 

I understand more than the ancients did, 

Because thy precepts in my mind are hid. 

I have refrained my feet from every evil way; 

That I thy word had kept can truthful say. 

I've not departed from thy judgments just, 

For in them thou hast taught me. Lord, to trust. 

How sweet, oh. Lord, thy words are unto me. 

Yea, sweeter than the store sipped by the bee. 

Through thy precepts I understanding get, 

Therefore thy servant all false ways doth hate. 

In thy immortal word a lamp my footsteps hath, 

Immanuel's lamp, a light unto my path. 

I've sworn it, and perform I will, 

To keep thy righteous judgments and fulfill. 

My life's afflicted very much, oh. Lord! 

Living my life according to thy word. 

Accept I pray thee now my gift of praise. 

Teach me thy judgments and thy holy ways. 

My soul continually is in my hand. 

Yet do I not forget upon thy law to stand. 

The wicked crafty laid a snare for me, 

Thy precepts yet I have not failed to see. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 207 

Thy testimonies are my legacy from thee, 
Rejoicing of my heart they e'er will be. 
My heart to ever faithful he's inclined, 
Unto the end thy statutes e'er to mind. 

I hate vain thoughts, but thy great law I love. 

'Tis thou a hiding place dost ever prove. 

And shield 'gainst Satan's fiery darts, 

A hope thy word within my bosom starts. 

Ye evil doers now from me depart, 

I treasure God's commands within my heart. 

According to thy word, oh, me uphold, 

That I may live and not ashamed, but bold. 

I shall be safe if thou but hold me up; 

Continually from thy statutes I will sup. 

The ones who err thou'st trod beneath thy feet, 

For they thy statutes handle with deceit. 

Like dross the wicked dost thou put away. 

Therefore I love thy testimonies every da3^ 

My flesh it trembleth. Lord, for fear of thee. 

And thy vast judgments which the world shall see. 

Judgment and justice I have faithful done, 
Oh leave me not 'mid my oppressors won. 
Be surety for thy servant. Lord, for good; 
Let not the proud oppress me if he would. 
For thy salvation. Lord, mine eyes 
Weep for the comfort that thy word supplies. 
According to thy mercy deal v/ith me. 



208 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Teach me thy statutes, Lord, to see. 
I am thy servant, understanding give, 
That I may know thy testaments and live. 
'Tis time for thee to work, oh Lord, because 
They have made void thy perfect laws. 
Therefore, oh Lord, I love thy great commands. 
Above fine gold, yea, fine gold from the sands. 
Thy precepts on all things. Lord, are right 
I hate false ways for they obscure thy light. 

Thy testimonies are most wonderful to view, 

Therefore my waiting soul doth keep them true. 

The entrance of thy word it giveth light. 

The simple even see thy radiance bright. 

Opened I my mouth and panted more; 

For thy commands had I a longing sore. 

Look thou upon me and be merciful the same 

As formerly thou didst, to those who loved thy name. 

Oh, order thou my steps within thy word; 

Destroy iniquity in me with thy sharp sword. 

Deliver me from those who would oppress, 

So I will keep thy precepts, they shall bless. 

Upon thy servant make thy face to shine. 

Teach me thy statutes, they shall then be mine. 

Rivers of waters run from out my eyes. 

Because they will not keep the way thy law supplies. 

Righteous, oh, Lord, art thou, 

To thy most holy judgments will we bow. 



THE SUNSET SHORE 209 

Thy testimonies, thy commands are right 
And ever faithful for our guidance quite. 
Consumed by zeal mj^ heart is ever stirred, 
Because mine enemies have forgot thy holy word. 
I love thy word because it is so pure, 
Though small, despised, I feel thy precepts sure. 
An everlasting righteousness is thine; 
Thy law as truth vrill ever, ever shine. 
Trouble and anguish take a hold on me, 
Yet thy commands my dear delight shall be: 
An everlasting righteousness thy testimonies have; 
Give understanding unto me and I shall live. 

I cried with my whole heart: "Hear me, or, Lord!" 

And I will keep the statutes of thy holy word. 

To thee I cried : "Save me, oh Lord, I pray ! 

And I will keep thy testaments, j^ea, for aj^e." 

The dawning of the morn I interrupt 

And cried while hoping, in thy word I supped. 

Mine eyes were open in the wakeful night, 

That by thy word I might my soul requite. 

Oh, hear thou as thy loving kindness be; 

According to thy judgment quicken me. 

The mischief makers come at me to cry. 

Far from thy law, not guided by thine eye. 

But thou art near, my Lord, to keep. 

For thy commands are truth, dost never sleep. 

Of all thy testimonies I have known of old ; 

Forever thy glad story hast thou told. 



210 THE SUNSET SHORE. 

Consider mine afflictions, and deliver me, 
For in my mind thy laws forever be. 
Deliver me, oh Lord, and plead my cause, 
Oh give me life according to thy laws. 
Far from the wicked is salvation's hope ; 
Far from thy statutes in the dark they grope. 
Great are thy tender mercies, yea, I know. 
With thy great judgments oh my soul endow. 
Though enemies and persecutors, Lord, are mine, 
Yet from thy judgments will I not incline. 
Transgressors I beheld, my bosom stirred, 
Because they would not keep thy holy word. 
Oh, Lord, consider how I love thy precepts rife; 
According to thy loving kindness give me life. 
Thy word proved true from the beginning past; 
Forever shall thy righteous judgments last. 

Princes have persecuted me without a cause; 
My heart still stands in reverence of thy laws. 
As one who finds a hidden treasure rare, 
Delighting in thy word its joys I share. 
Lying I hate; by this I now reprove, 
But treasure truth and so thy law I love. 
I praise thee. Lord, yea, seven times a day. 
Because of thy just judgments by the way. 
Great peace is there for those who love thy law, 
And nothing shall offend or over awe. 
For thy salvation I have ever hoped. 
Done thy commands, nor in the darkness groped. 



THE SUNSET SHORE. 211 

My life has e'er thy testimonies kept, 
Exceedingly I love them, and thy harvest rept. 
Thy testimonies and thy precepts I retain ; 
My ways are all before thee, open, plain. 

Oh let me know, oh Lord, my cry is heard. 
And give me understanding by thy word. 
Oh, listen to my supplications. Lord, and hear; 
Deliver me according to thy word from fear. 
With grateful heart my lips shall utter praise, 
When thou hast taught me of thy glorious ways. 
My tongue shall speak thy holy word to bless, 
For thy commands are just and righteousness. 
Oh let thy hand my help be. Lord, today; 
Thy precepts I have chosen to obey 
I longed for thy salvation in the night; 
Oh, Lord, thy holy law is my delight. 
My soul shall praise thee if thou let it live: 
And let thy judgments help me praise to give. 
Like a lost sheep thy servant went astray ; 
Search me and bring me back into thy way. 



